He looked out at the island of Coribar. An offshore breeze drifted in, carrying a hint of jasmine from bushes that grew wild along the coast. Mathew took a deep breath, let it out, and rested his head against the side of the frame. The temperatures had been dropping steadily for the last two weeks, and the fresh air made the tiny cabin seem almost tolerable.
Thus far the Felizian raid had proven spectacularly unsuccessful. The temple contained little in the way of gold,
gems, or anything else of value, which had put the captain in a foul mood. It had been a costly venture in many ways. Two crew members were dead and another three had been injured. Fikes's party took what they could and carried it back to the ship. Their captain, Phillipe Edrington, was anxiously waiting for them. He took one look at what they had recovered, muttered something under his breath, and went down to his cabin with the ship's clerk to log the pieces in.
Under Felizian law, the royal family received twenty percent of everything their navy recovered. The rest was divided between the captain and crew, which in this case amounted to seventy-five percent of nothing. It was an interesting system, Mathew reflected, all made possible by the cannons and black powder. As a result, a number of ship captains had become wealthy overnight. Unfortunately, this was not the case with Phillipe Edrington.
He was the second man to command the Daedalus since Mathew had come aboard. A minor noble at court, Edrington purchased the ship, complete with its crew, from its previous master, who was now happily retired and living on an estate in the country.
Mathew cared nothing about the plunder. Serving on a ship was only the means to an end. The Felizians traded extensively with Nyngary, and that was where Teanna had hidden his ring. But every opportunity he'd had over the last four years to get close to it ended in failure.
He looked at the calendar. Now another opportunity was about to present itself, provided he could get the captain to land the ship in Vargoth in two weeks' time.
Mathew walked back to the cot, picked up the box, and turned the dials a few times. He listened carefully for the sound of a tumbler falling into place, but the wood was too thick for any noise to escape. After trying for several minutes, he gave up and went on deck.
His watch wasn't due to begin until four bells, and he found it was easier to think outside the stuffy confines of the cabin. Elton Fikes was at his usual station on the quarterdeck, overseeing preparations for their getting underway.
Water and fresh fruit were always problems on a ship, and Fikes had the good sense to send a party out to refill their casks. The senior officer gave Mathew a smile when he saw him and returned his attention to the activity on the starboard side of the ship. There was a great deal of it going on.
Young Stanley Warrenton was in the process of tying alongside in the lighter. Mathew glanced over the rail and saw they were bringing back a number of crates filled with oranges and limes. Near the foredeck and amidships, different crews of sailors were busy mending sails and repairing frayed lines. Others, working under the guidance of Ellias Marsden, the ship's carpenter, were replacing a spar that had recently cracked in a storm off the Elgarian coast. It was as close as Mathew had come to seeing his homeland in nearly four years.
The experience had raised a hollow feeling in his chest. Through a series of careful inquiries, he managed to learn that Collin and Lara had made it safely back to Devon-dale. The knowledge, however, gave him little comfort. He wanted to contact them, needed to, but he knew it would have endangered his plans, not to mention putting them at risk. The northern two-thirds of Elgaria, where Devondale was located, was now ruled by the Vargothans. From time to time stories reached him of the atrocities being committed in his country, and the fact that he was powerless to do anything about it made him sick at heart. The situation with Gawl and Father Thomas was not much better. As recently as six months earlier, when the Daedalus had visited Barcora, he'd overheard a merchant talking to a man in the Stanley Market. Apparently, the king was still imprisoned in Camden Keep. The men spoke in hushed voices, and while Mathew couldn't hear
the entire conversation, one word did catch his attention. Trial.
Gawl had already been tried and sentenced to twenty years in prison. So why would the Regent want another trial? Some careful poking around in other taverns and shops over the next few days brought him the answer. Lord Guy was now satisfied with the high court's composition and was ready to remove what he perceived as the last threat to him. Gawl d'Atherny was far too dangerous an opponent to let live, even in captivity. The ex-king still held the people's love, though few were willing to stand up against the new government. Complicating matters further was the Church. They would certainly bless any decision the high court handed down. At the time Edward Guy took power, Bishop Ferdinand Willis, now Archbishop Willis, had been appointed as head of the Sennian Church. Their relationship was symbiotic, with each endorsing the other's decisions and edicts. Paul Teller, the former abbot, had been removed and reassigned to a small church on the southern border.
A footfall behind Mathew caught his attention.
"Any luck with our mysterious box?" Fikes asked.
"Afraid not."
"Perhaps we can take it to a locksmith when we reach Boswell. I can't imagine what's so important about it. .. probably just Church messages or that sort of thing."
"Probably," Mathew agreed. "Did you just say Boswell? I thought we were going to Nyngary. Boswell's in Mirdan."
Fikes clapped Mathew on the back. "That's why we made you navigator, Thaddeus. Very little escapes you."
Mathew gave Fikes a fiat look. "I'm serious, Elton."
"The captain has decided to give the northern shipping lanes a try before we head for home, and I can't say as I disagree. This has been a dismal trip. How long do you think it will take us to get there?"
Mathew considered the question for a moment. "About a week, I should say, assuming the weather holds fair. I'll check the charts."
Fikes glanced up at the sky. "I imagine we'll be all right. It's still early in the season for hurricanes."
"They get more in the northern waters than down here. Do you think this will sit well with the crew? They've been expecting to be paid off at the end of the month, and we're already three weeks behind schedule."
"I mentioned that to the captain when we spoke earlier," said Fikes. He looked around quickly and lowered his voice. "The problem is, Edrington's stretched pretty thin at the moment. He was counting on this voyage to set him right with the banks."
"He should have stuck to being a merchant," Mathew replied. "Being a pirate doesn't suit him."
"I don't think he had much choice in the matter, at least not from what I've heard. His brother will take over the family estate when their father passes, and Edrington told me they don't get on well together. It was either make his way in the world or starve. Lord Edrington seemed only too happy to cart Fat Phil off to the navy when the opportunity came up."
"I see," said Mathew. He thought about Captain Phillipe Edrington for a moment and shook his head.
Edrington was a pompous man with small hands, who sweated profusely any time the ship went into action. It was the same thing in rough weather. If ever a man was less suited for a life at sea, it was "Fat Phil," as the crew referred to him behind his back.
Mathew had become aware of the nickname shortly after Edrington had assumed command of the ship. The captain's lack of knowledge and indecision had nearly gotten them killed twice in the last few months. The first time was when he had put the ship off a lee shore during a storm, which nearly resulted in their being pounded to pieces against Alor Satar's southern coastline. Unable to
decide how to extricate themselves from the predicament, Edrington had watched the rocks loom closer and closer. Fortunately, Mathew had been on deck at the time and snapped an order for the Daedalus to tack, bringing the ship around. Edrington merely thanked him for his foresight in anticipating his next order.
>
The second incident had come three weeks earlier. Despite Elton Fikes's urgings that they take in sail during a violent squall, Edrington ignored his first officer's advice and kept them plunging ahead through the turbulent waters. His plan was to get to the southern shipping lanes before his fellow captains.
By then Mathew had determined that Phillipe Edrington knew as little about the sea as he did about the sailing qualities of the Daedalus. It was all he and the other officers could do to keep things together—not an easy trick to accomplish. None of them wanted to undermine the captain's authority, but neither did they want to kill everyone onboard by following him blindly, particularly when they knew his judgment was more often wrong than right.
The recent mishap could have easily dismasted the ship, but fortunately, a belaying pin falling from the mainmast had knocked the captain unconscious. This accident allowed Elton Fikes to call the watch and shorten sail with only minimal damage to two of the mizzenmast's spars. The falling pin had been Mathew's doing.
Waiting until the last moment, when no one was looking, Mathew had found the ring's echo and shook the pin loose. Neither the men nor Captain Edrington, when he recovered consciousness, were any the wiser. Thus, all interests were served, with the possible exception of the captain, who had a sizable headache and stayed in bed for two days.
Next to him, Fikes said something that Mathew only half caught.
"I say, Thaddeus, were you listening to me?"
"I'm sorry," Mathew replied, "I guess I was preoccupied."
"I said, we'll probably need to drill the gun crews harder. Hitting a stationary target is one thing, but I'd hate to be in a situation where someone's firing back at us." "Why? Do you think the Mirdanites have cannons yet?" "No way of knowing," Fikes said, shaking his head. "But I'd like to be prepared in case they do. In my opinion, it's just a matter of time. We've had free run of the seas now for almost two years. That won't go on forever." "Agreed," Mathew said. "I'll attend to it in the morning." They continued chatting until they were interrupted by Lieutenant Glyndon Pruett, the ship's third officer.
"Pardon, gentlemen," Pruett said, removing his hat and executing a theatrical bow. "The captain requests the pleasure of your company at dinner this evening."
"Ah," Fikes replied, returning the bow, "please tell his nibs that barring more pressing social matters, my companion and I may condescend to make a brief appearance." "Naturally," Pruett answered. "And may I convey your similar sentiments, Mr. Lane?"
"You may indeed—absent the 'nibs' part, of course." "Of course."
"What's up, Glyndon?" Mathew asked. Pruett shrugged. "No idea. Stinson caught up with me in the companionway and asked me to pass the invitation along."
The third officer was a lean fellow with an easygoing, affable manner. Only a year or two younger than Mathew, he had recently joined the ship's company at the request of his father, a longtime friend of Edrington's. According to Pruett, his father was of the opinion that a life at sea was preferable to a career in music, where his true passions lay. He and Mathew had quickly become friends.
"Will you be joining us as well, Glyndon?" Fikes asked.
"I will. Despite my vociferous protestations to the contrary about having to stand watch, Stinson informed me
that our sailing master would take my place. It seems the captain wants all senior officers present." Mathew and Fikes exchanged glances. "I can't imagine anything has changed since we spoke, but I'd better go check," Fikes said. He excused himself and left.
"Changed?" Pruett asked, turning to Mathew. "Elton said the captain wants to take the ship to Boswell before we head for home." "Really?"
"That's the word. We're also to begin exercising the gun crews harder in the morning."
"Sounds exciting, Thad. Have you ever been there?" "No. This will be my first time." "Me, too. Maybe we can make enough money so I can get off this tub and resume my lessons."
"Won't that cause problems with your father?" "It doesn't matter. I've been giving it some thought. I've been a good son all my life, or at least reasonably good, and I've always done what I've been told. But it occurred to me the other day, it's my life, don't you see? Not his, or anyone else's for that matter. I'll be twenty-three next month and I've got to stand on my own two feet. I won't make much money playing the violin, but I'll be doing what I want."
Mathew's eyes assumed a faraway look and he stared out over the water. "I had two friends who played the violin once; so did their father. Every Sixth Day afternoon they used to play in the town square." "Really? They gave concerts?" "I don't think they were concerts," Mathew said. "Basically, they played because they enjoyed it. Everyone said they were quite good."
"I'm sure they were. Music is something that's in your blood. You either love it or you don't. Did you enjoy the performances?"
"They were a bit difficult to appreciate," Mathew explained. "I'm somewhat tone deaf. Can't carry a tune from here to the port side of the ship."
"You don't say?" Glyndon said. "How awful for you. If there's anything I can ever do ..."
His friend seemed genuinely taken aback at the concept of someone not being able to appreciate music and was now looking at Mathew as if he'd just learned he had a
wooden leg.
Mathew put a hand on Pruett's shoulder and kept his expression somber. "Thank you, Glyndon. That's very decent of you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a turn around the ship and see that everything is in order before we weigh anchor. See you at dinner."
4
Camden Keep, Sennia
Gawl d'Atherny watched the coach pull in through the main gate of the castle from his window. Despite the warmth of the autumn day, the walls of Camden Keep Tower were decidedly cool. The room had been his cell for the last four years. It was circular rather than square and sparsely furnished. A bed, a chest of drawers with a mirror over it, and a writing desk were the only pieces of furniture. The floors were bare.
A sheer drop of over a hundred feet to the cobblestones made window bars unnecessary. Camden Keep was not a place one escaped from, unless it was to the afterlife. Unlike the window, a set of heavy iron bars had been installed between the living area and a small vestibule where the room's entrance was located. They ran from floor to ceiling and were anchored with cement. A rectangle opening at the base was just large enough for his jailers to pass food through. They'd been placed there after Gawl had broken down the door for a second time.
Gawl cocked one eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest as the coach came to a halt. The door bore the emblem of the Archbishop. Two men stepped out. From his purple robes, he recognized one of them as Ferdinand Willis. The other was Edward Guy. Both of them looked up at the same time and saw him watching them. Gawl took a seat and waited.
Five minutes later the door to his cell opened and the Archbishop of Sennia and the country's Regent stepped
into the vestibule. They were accompanied by a guard, who gave the king a nervous glance. The man set the two chairs he was carrying down and faced them into the room. He then bowed to the king and withdrew, closing the door after him. There was an audible click as the lock snapped shut. Ferdinand Willis and Edward Guy both seated themselves.
"Your majesty," Archbishop Willis said, inclining his head, "I trust you are well."
"Come a little closer and I'll whisper the answer in your ear."
Some of the color drained out of Ferdinand Willis's face and he gave the bars a quick glance. "Very amusing, your highness, but I believe I will stay where I am. Edward and I have come to talk with you."
"I'm not in the habit of speaking with traitors." The archbishop shut his eyes, took a long-suffering breath, then folded his hands on his lap. "We've been through all this before, your highness. I recognize that you still harbor ill feelings, but what was done was done for the good of the country. If you would only—"
"Save your breath, Willis. You can get out, and t
ake that vermin seated next to you with you."
A brief look that might have been annoyance flashed across Edward Guy's features, replaced shortly by a faint smile. "As you say, we have discussed all this before," the Regent replied. "We are here to offer you your freedom." Gawl stuck out his lower lip. "Really?" "Provided certain conditions are met." Guy did not meet Gawl's eyes, looking at him in the mirror instead.
Gawl leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles. "I can hardly wait."
Lord Guy continued to stare at the mirror for several seconds, then took a roll of parchment from inside his doublet and slid it under the bars. Gawl glanced at it but made no move to pick it up. For a period of time, no one
spoke and the silence in the room grew heavier, broken only by the ticking of a clock on Gawl's desk. The king regarded his visitors, unblinking. When it became obvious he had no intention of examining the document, Ferdinand Willis began speaking again.
"The conditions Edward was referring to are not onerous, I assure you. Indeed, they are minimal at best. You need only acknowledge that your actions were influenced by Mathew Lewin and that you now see the error of those decisions. You must also state that you are willing to voluntarily abdicate the throne. As soon as you do so, we will see to it that you are furnished with a suitable home and an income for the rest of your life. You can return to your sculpting or whatever pleases you. You'll be free, your majesty. Do you understand?"
"Provided I acknowledge Edward's right to hold the regency, leave Sennia, and never return, correct?"
"Well... ah, that would be part of it," the Archbishop responded, "but you'd have your freedom—immediately."
"Immediately," Gawl repeated, to himself.
"Yes . .. yes, indeed, your highness. All you need do is sign this paper. Lewin is dead, so it will hardly make a difference to him," the Archbishop said.
Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 03] - The Ancient Legacy(V1.0) Page 3