by J M D Reid
Only he’d have to contaminate everyone’s food to do it.
As he stirred the ladle through the thick fish stew bubbling away in the large ceramic pot sitting on the stove in the galley, his hands itched to dump in the powdery poison. He would season the brown muck with Chaylene’s freedom. But Vel didn’t know if Ary would even eat from this batch of stew.
What if Chaylene ate from it?
As much as Vel wanted Ary dead, he couldn’t take that risk. It was only the second day sailing from Les. He had time.
Besides, I’d kill half the crew. Vel almost thought it would be worth it to have her.
Almost.
The galley sweltered. Vel’s shirt clung to his body. The only freedom he had from the heat was during the drills. Even then, as a cook, his job was to run ammunition to the sailors with crossbows, making sure they stayed armed. The sailors all looked down at the cooks. Vel, Myar, and Shayis, under the Chief Hay’s watch, manned the galley. One of them always kept the stew bubbling and churning. The Dauntless had three shifts, so the sailors ate at all times of day and night. For eight hours, Vel chopped onions, potatoes, celery, and cabbage, dumping them into the stew along with salted cod and dried trout. Whenever it ran low, he added more water and flour.
It was torture.
No one had it worst on the Dauntless than the cooks. At least the rest of the crew spent their duty out of the sweltering galley enjoying the sun and the breeze. They felt the wind on their faces while stretching their legs about the ship. They weren’t imprisoned in a space so cramped Vel could reach out and touch all sides.
As he dumped out a fresh load of potatoes to chop up, boots clumped outside the galley. Men laughed. The first watch streamed in for lunch. He’d have to ladle the slop into their bowls while listening to them gripe about their “onerous” duty.
He looked up from his chopping board and . . .
Vel gritted his teeth.
Guts, one of the two marines who’d chased Vel the night he was almost caught spying on Chaylene, approached the galley’s counter. The man loomed like a living boulder. The marines attracted the most vicious men and only made them more dangerous.
“Need eleven bowls,” Guts said. He had a mocking grin on his lips.
The man delights in bossing me around. Vel ground his teeth as he nodded.
He slopped the stew into the wooden bowls, not caring if any spilled over the side. As he set them on a wooden platter, he knew Ary would eat from one. But which was his and which was Chaylene’s? Her laughter drifted through the doorway. Ary arranged things to serve on the same watch and keep on eye on her.
Vel’s hand drifted towards the pouch in his trouser pocket and froze. He trembled, heart thudding. He couldn’t take the risk. Not with Chaylene’s life. He needed patience like when he fished with . . . when he fished as a boy.
“Enjoy,” Vel sneered.
“Thanks,” Guts nodded in that feigned tone of pleasant camaraderie. The big marine took the tray with one hand, the other clapping Vel’s shoulder. “You keep us going.”
Guts’s words twisted inside Vel. He should poison all the marines. They were all as bad as Ary, monsters each and every one. Just because they swaggered with Stormrider blades strapped to their waists, they thought themselves better.
Vel mopped his handsome face with the corner of his apron. He scooped up a pitcher of water and dumped it into the stew. He added more flour then set about dicing potatoes while the marines laughed. Vel gritted his teeth. They mocked him.
I should kill all of them! Serves them right.
His hand drifted down to his pocket. Chaylene’s smiling face stopped him.
She’s the only one that likes me. She’s the only one that matters.
*
“That’s disgusting, Vay,” Chaylene groaned. She dropped her spoon into the fish stew. She shot the marine a look so cold Ary shivered.
Vay only grin broadened as Guts and Messiench struggled to breathe through their laughter. Ary fought his own smile at Vay’s bawdy tale of his last night at the Friendly Maid. He shouldn’t find it amusing. The man was dung.
“I really doubt those women did that,” Chaylene continued.
“Well, one was half-Vaarckthian and . . .” Vay trailed off as Ary’s mirth evaporated. A silence descended upon the table. Zeirie winced and stared down at her own stew.
“And?” Chaylene demanded. “What does her being half-Vaarckthian prove?”
“Uh . . .” This time, Vay withered beneath Chaylene’s look. He shrank from it, his brash arrogance deflated. “Nothing.” Vay took a big gulp of his stew. “Well, I’m finished. I guess I’ll go back on deck.”
“Good idea,” Ary rumbled.
Vay half-stood, then glanced at Chaylene. “Sorry,” he muttered before heading topside.
“I bet it was all lies,” Guts said.
“It was filthy,” Chaylene huffed.
Guts grinned. “I bet Zori would’ve liked it.”
Chaylene’s frosty anger melted, an amused smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, I bet she would.”
“She’d make this trip lively.” Guts sighed then glanced at Ary. “What’s in store for the afternoon? More drilling?”
“I want you all ready to face the pirates,” Ary answered. He liked drilling. He didn’t have to think about . . . Chone. He could focus on sharpening his marines, preparing them. “We need to tear them apart.”
Messiench grinned viciously, the effect spoiled by the bits of stew clinging to his beard. “We’ll rip those Bluefin Raiders into bloody ribbons. Course, we got to find them first.”
“Oh, we will,” Chaylene said.
She had spent hours yesterday, the first day sailing, poring over maps and consulting with the navigator and Captain Dhar planning the search. Ary was glad he didn’t have to do that. It made his brain ache thinking about the math she did, adding up numbers while using all sorts of fancy instruments.
Being a marine’s much easier. We just sweat and bleed.
Ary and the others finished off their fish stew. He grabbed his wife’s bowl for her, earning him a smile, and then Vay’s. Ary’s jaw tightened. He’d have to punish Vay for leaving behind his dish. He stomped across the hold to the galley, passing another group of sailors.
“. . . she’s Vaarckthian, and Vel’s got a way with the women,” one of the new sailors said, then looked up. The man’s face paled. He stared down at his stew while the other sailors shifted nervously.
Ary’s annoyance with Vay transformed into loathing anger. His hands tightened on the wooden bowls as he marched past. The sailors’ gazes itched his skin. Rumors still buzzed that Chaylene had made a set of horns for him to wear. He endured it. He held is temper by tight reins. He wasn’t that youth in Isfe, punching any who taunted him. He was a marine, a sergeant. If his wife could withstand even worse, then so could he. He could be as strong as Chaylene.
He reached the galley. He hadn’t talked to Vel since the night the eel had thrown a punch at him thinking he could win Chaylene. Vel patted his pocket, a sneer twisting his lips. Ary’s Lightning crackled across his knuckles. It would be so—
He set his jaw and slammed down the bowls. Without a word, he marched away to channel his wrath into something positive.
Beneficial.
He left behind the stuffy hold and gained the Dauntless’s deck. The propelling winds ruffled Ary’s coat. In the rigging, sailors with Moderate Wind worked, their bodies untouched by the breeze. It was useful for sailors working up in the sails when dealing with the strong gusts generated by the Windwarden. Ary only possessed Minor Wind. He could fall slowly but do little else. Ropes creaked as the hemp fibers rasped together. The air held a sour tang of unwashed bodies.
“Sergeant,” Corporal Huson saluted as she sat on a barrel. Even off-duty she wore her uniform buttoned tight. She honed her metal sabre resting across her lap with a whetstone.
Ary nodded to the woman as he passed. He climbed up to the stern deck whe
re Captain Dhar took her ease leaning on the gunwale. She spoke with Lieutenant-Captain Chemy. The navigator’s piercing red eyes fell on Ary as she said, “At this speed we should be arriving at Vesche in four days.”
“Very good,” the captain nodded, her stern gaze turning to Ary. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“Permission to run a drill, Captain?”
A slight smile twisted the corners of her lips. “Granted, Sergeant.”
The captain loved drills.
The crew was less fond of them, but they responded to the Bosun’s whistle, racing to their action stations. A few flashed Ary dirty looks. He weathered their anger. When the Dauntless faced the Bluefin Raiders, they would be ready.
*
Isamoa 20th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Estan emerged from the hold, his healing ribs aching. Three days aboard ship had not done much good for them. He wore his red coat unbuttoned. Summer’s warmth still lingered into autumn. Though the sun had set, the nights didn’t grow as cool thanks to the heat rising from the Storm Below. It would actually be colder deeper in a skyland than at the coasts due to this phenomenon.
He spotted Chaylene glowering at a pair of laughing sailors, an earthenware cup of grog in her hand. The Vionese had their prejudices, like any race. Estan suspected the supposed “wanton ways” of Vaarckthian women was a jealous reaction. He’d observed from the male members of the crew that Humans possessed an innate craving for novel experiences. To the average Vionese man, immersed in the brown-skinned women of their race, Chaylene’s ebony hue represented something new to explore. Estan hypothesized that Humans’ innate curiosity spurred this attraction.
It didn’t help that Chaylene’s blonde hair contrasted beautifully with her black skin, giving her an even more exotic look than a full-blooded Vaarckthian. Estan preferred the more ivory skin of an Agerzak woman, exotic and novel to him. After all, Estan had two sisters and a fair share of cousins.
“Are those jackanapes bothering you?” Estan asked Chaylene as he sat on a barrel beside her.
“Just looking at me.” She took a sip of her grog and grimaced. “Everyone’s always looking at me. I’d love them to stop. Ary doesn’t need . . . reminders. He hides it, but it angers him. I don’t want him to get jealous and . . . Is it all in my head?”
“Perhaps. Though I had similar experience in Amion. I was the son of the Lord Mayor, and since my ancestors ruled all of Elemy for the Empire, noble blood flows through my veins. The other sons of important men and women were . . . nervous around me. They feared my father. He was a . . . strict man. Bitter about his father’s loss of the governorship.”
“I’ve wondered if my pa would have been strict.” Chaylene’s eyes found one of the Zzuki auxiliaries standing tall next to Lieutenant Xoaren, the replacement Windwarden from the Spirituous. While both of the Dauntless’s Windwardens had survived the Cyclone, Lieutenant Nyonis had lost a hand, which meant an automatic discharge. “I imagine him as loving.”
Estan patted her hand. “Such anger solves nothing. Those Gezitziz didn’t kill him.”
Chaylene jerked her hand back. “Did you want something, Estan?”
He disliked the tightness in her eyes and her harsh frown. I’m not here to admonish her prejudices. Estan had a purpose for this conversation so he asked, “What topic would you like to discuss?”
Chaylene’s expression melted from disgust to puzzlement. “Huh?”
“It’s Dawnsday.” Estan hoped his voice sounded light, friendly. “I know this is hardly the Perfumed Leaf, but we must make due with the unfortunate circumstance we find thrust upon us.” Estan tried to stay positive about his enlistment.
“It is Dawnsday.” A smile grew on Chaylene’s lips. She took another sip of her grog. “I’d forgotten. The days all kind of blend together.”
“That they do,” Estan nodded in agreement. “So it is all the more reason to keep track and try to have some semblance of normalcy.”
“But Ary should be here.” Chaylene searched the deck. “Where is he?” She glanced at the doors to the officer cabins.
“As you have deduced, he is meeting with Captain Dhar.”
A giggle escaped Chaylene’s lips.
Estan blinked. “I fear I do not see what is so humorous.”
She fluttered her hand. “Nothing. Just something Zori said the day Ary was promoted to corporal.” Chaylene’s expression fell. “I can’t wait for her to recover. Then I’ll have a friend aboard. She must be hating being on that merchant ship, not able to fly free.”
“Aren’t I your friend? Or your husband? Or Guts?”
Chaylene winced, cheeks warming. “I’m so sorry. That came out wrong. Of course, you all are my friends. But a woman needs female friends. There are topics just not appropriate for mixed company.”
“So, what topic acceptable for mixed company shall we discuss and debate?” He needed to tread with care. He had to let her guide the conversation and hope her inquisitive mind sought out knowledge about her husband’s condition.
Chaylene bit her lip. “How did the Stormriders drag Swuopii and the other eastern skylands down into the Storm Below?”
Estan’s pulse quickened, a tingle animating his fingers. “There are three major theories to explain how skylands float.”
“Riasruo did it,” Chaylene said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Right?”
“But how did She do it?”
“Okay, how?” She leaned in. So interested to learn. She was wasted in the navy. If anyone in her life had recognized the inquisitiveness of her mind, they would have groomed her for the University of Rlarshon.
“The least likely is the Theory of the Negative Buoyancy.”
“Buoyancy?” Chaylene frowned. “I’ve never heard that word.”
“It’s used to describe the phenomenon of objects floating upon water. Wheesot, the Sowerese scholar who proposed this theory, first came upon it by observing boats floating on Lake Bkeurn while studying at the University of Qopraa.”
“It’s so strange thinking of boats on water,” Chaylene said, amusement warming her tone. “Don’t you think?”
Estan nodded then launched into his explanation. “Objects float by displacing their mass in water. Since wood is less dense than water, it can displace its mass and still not fully sink. So it floats.”
“And she thinks skylands float the same way by displacing the air?”
“Air grows more dense the lower you descend. Like all things, it is pulled downward. It is why there is an altitude limit on ships. If they soar too high, you cannot breathe. The air is too thin. So she theorized that the skylands must be made out of a core of some unidentified material which gives them buoyancy.”
“Okay. I guess that makes sense. That’s how fish fly, right? They have bladders that are lighter than air.”
Estan nodded. “Exactly. But this material has never been found. Not by Zalg miners who delve deep into skylands nor by the destruction of skyreefs.”
“So a skyreef is just all rock?” Chaylene asked.
Skyreefs posed hazards to flying ships. They were thought to be broken pieces of skylands drifting through the skies. They could form fields of boulders, some no bigger than a Human and others larger than a house. If a ship struck one, they could be badly damaged and plummet out of the skies.
“Yes. Each one investigated was found to be completely made of rock. When broken apart, the individual pieces do not float. Her theory also fails to explain the Great Empty and the skylands the Stormriders pulled down into the Storm.”
“Sounds like it,” Chaylene nodded.
“The Theory of Ephemeral Strings postulates that invisible cords, located in some space or dimension beyond the physical, are attached to the skylands. They hang from points up in the heavens that are intangible to our investigations.”
“You believe there are realms beyond our own?” Chaylene bit her lip.
“Possibly.” My studies of Nzuuth’s poetry leads to that hypothesis. “This theory has
great explanatory power. Even the drifting skyreefs are said to be attached. When skyreefs are broken down, the smaller pieces do not float. To the scholars, this seemed to confirm their hypothesis that the ephemeral strings were severed.”
“And the Cyclone sweeps over the skyland and cuts the strings?”
“There are two documented Cyclones that did just that. Both the Cyclone of 368 AF that attacked Evtan and the Cyclone of 6 VF that attacked Twatrew were unopposed. On both, half their populations were killed before the Cyclones passed over the skyland. If the tempest severs the strings, why do they still float?”
Chaylene shuddered. “They really swept across the skylands unopposed?”
“And the Stormriders neither pulled those skylands down nor colonized them like the Agerzaks did.”
“So that theory is false. Which is the correct one?”
Estan couldn’t help smiling at the interest in her cloud-gray eyes. “I prefer the Theory of Binding Forces. The Ethinski scholar, Shzitz sze Vviry, proposed—”
“It was a Gezitziz who came up with this?” Chaylene whispered. “One of those brutes?”
“Well, the Tribes of Zzuk are surely lacking in . . . sophistication.” Estan glanced at a blue-scaled auxiliary leaning against the mainmast. “But their Ethinski cousins have always been cultured and educated. Do not let your personal bias obscure the truth from your mind. That leads to false assumptions, illogical reasoning, and faulty premises. You need to keep your thoughts as clear as the empty sky.”
Chaylene grimaced. “Okay.”
“This theory states that there are fixed points around the skies. These anchor points hold whatever energy, spell, force, or song Riasruo used to levitate the skylands. We can imagine them as foci for them, nexuses of great importance. They hold up regions of the skylands. When the Great Cyclone struck Swuopii, it destroyed one and caused all the eastern skylands to plummet into the storm. Not just mighty Swuopii.”