The Duchess Quest (Jordinia Book 1)

by C. K. Brooke

  “Oh, I am well aware of that,” replied Bos. “Which is why I shall do everything in my power to ensure Macmillan succeeds, and you do not.”

  Cosmith clicked his tongue, grinning dangerously. “Taking sides, are we? You’re making a very unwise decision, my friend.”

  “I would not be so sure of yourself, Cosmith.” Bos turned his massive back and lumbered across the deck, heavy boots thudding over the planks.

  Sighing, Cosmith retrieved his satchel, took another drag from his canteen, and recounted his gold to ensure that all of his pieces had remained safe throughout his turbulent voyage. They had.

  HE DREADED ACCOMPANYING THE FISHERMAN to market. But when they reached the coastal town called Beili the following morning, Cosmith was in no position to object. Resigned, he followed Pascale to the busy downtown square, watching as the man perused the jewelry stands.

  After a while, Pascale spotted a piece that appeared to catch his fancy. The bracelet glittered silver-white under the morning sun, encrusted with tiny, acutely trimmed diamonds and pearls.

  “Ah,” grinned the merchant. “Winter’s gold. A timeless metal. Not your average bracelet, but makes for a fine token of matrimony.” He winked.

  Pascale turned the delicate band over in his hands, and Cosmith exhaled, tapping his boot.

  “It can be yours, my friend, but for a price,” said the merchant, clearly trying to gauge whether Pascale was a serious customer, or merely admiring something beyond his means.

  “How much?” asked Pascale, and Cosmith braced himself.

  “You seem like a good fellow,” smiled the merchant. “You smell of the sea. My grandfather was a sailor too. Tell you what.” Cosmith rolled his eyes. “I will discount this lovely piece, just for you. My asking fee was forty-two gold, nine silver, but I shall sell it to you for thirty-eight pieces of gold. A true bargain!”

  “Thirty-eight pieces of gold?” sputtered Cosmith. “Are you mad?”

  The merchant turned to him with a grin that did not quite reach his eyes. “It is studded with fifty precious stones, approximately twenty-five diamonds and twenty-five pearls.”

  “Shards of them.” Cosmith eyed the bracelet grumpily. “Let me see that,” he snapped.

  After a warning glance, Pascale carefully handed him the bracelet. Cosmith weighed it in his palm. “Fifteen pieces for this,” Cosmith dangled the bracelet before the merchant, “would be deeply generous.” He dropped the piece back onto the counter. “Come.” He beckoned Pascale. “Let us find a more reputable vendor.”

  “But that is the one I want,” said Pascale, unmoving. “We had an agreement, Cosmith.”

  “Gentlemen, please,” laughed the merchant, as though it was all a joke. “Let us negotiate. I say thirty-eight, you say fifteen. Why do we not meet in the middle? How about thirty-two pieces of gold?”

  “That is not the middle,” growled Cosmith.

  “I want this bracelet, Cosmith,” insisted Pascale.

  “I do not have thirty-two pieces of gold to pay,” Cosmith hissed.

  “How much have you, then?” inquired Pascale evenly.

  As if Cosmith would tell him. He turned back to the merchant. “Twenty.”

  “I cannot do that, my friend. You’ll have to come up some.”

  Cosmith thought a moment. “Twenty-four, take or leave,” he decided, backing away.

  “Sold!” exclaimed the vendor.

  Grumbling, Cosmith reached into his pouch and counted aloud twenty-four gold coins exactly, laying them each on the merchant’s table. Pascale watched the transaction, and though Cosmith tried to inch away, he was too late. The fisherman had glimpsed inside his pouch, and his golden eyes narrowed.

  Cosmith handed the purchase to Pascale, not meeting his gaze.

  “Thank you!” the merchant called after them, waving merrily. “Come back again soon!”

  “To hell with that,” muttered Cosmith, stalking off. “Bloody crook.”

  “Hey.” Pascale hurried after him. “You said you didn’t have thirty-two pieces of gold to pay. But I saw inside your pouch. There had to be at least a hundred pieces in there, if not more.”

  Cosmith hiked an eyebrow. “I fail to see how that is any of your concern.”

  “You lied to me,” charged Pascale.

  “I lied to the vendor,” countered Cosmith. “Had he known I possessed the means, he wouldn’t have lowered his price.”

  “I see.” Pascale’s nostrils flared. “So you owed me a debt, but only wished to repay it at a cost that was comfortable for you.”

  “So?” Cosmith laughed at the man’s audacity, and ran his fingers blithely through his hair. Cor, it was feeling oily. “You have your bracelet, I have fulfilled my end of the bargain; now you can propose to your good lass, and no harm done!”

  Pascale seemed to deliberate before finally relenting. “I suppose you’re right. I got what I wanted, and I shall never have to see you again. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he muttered, pushing past. “I’ve some business to attend at port.”

  “You’re welcome!” Cosmith called after him, watching the man disappear down the crowded square. Seething that his purse was now twenty-four coins lighter, and to no benefit of his own, Cosmith made off in the opposite direction, when something prodded at him.

  Where, exactly, was Pascale going?

  And for that matter, where were Bos and Macmillan?

  Unable to help his curiosity, he turned, following Pascale back to port, careful to keep a safe distance. Once concealed by the dunes, he snuck down to shore, where he could make out the enormous Bos emptying a barrel of ice into the bottom of a wagon. When the giant turned, tossing in his nets of catch, Cosmith seized his opportunity.

  Quiet as he could, he climbed into the closest of the wagons and covered himself beneath the tarp. He nearly yowled from the ice at his back as he burrowed in with the fish, their dead, slimy faces staring down at him. This, he thought with a frown, would surely ruin his new clothing.

  He found an opening in the tarp through which to see, and waited in silence as the others secured the rest of the catch. At long last, they took up their handles.

  “Blimey, this one’s heavy,” grunted Macmillan, unsuspectingly pulling Cosmith.

  Pascale rolled his wagon in the lead. Cosmith held his breath, watching from behind an opening in the tarp to see Bos pulling two wagons, one with each hand.

  “So,” panted Pascale as they ascended the dunes, “you two mentioned you wanted to speak with me privately?”

  “Indeed, Captain,” said Bos.

  “Please, just Pascale.”

  “We seek a young woman,” Bos divulged, and Cosmith dropped his jaw. He immediately shut it, for the taste of raw fish near his mouth was unbearable. But why were they telling Pascale anything?

  “We realize there are maidens aplenty in your land,” came Macmillan’s voice, strained with labor. “But this woman is fair-skinned.”

  “Could be anyone,” grunted Pascale. “Is that all you can tell me?”

  “She’s around eighteen years old,” offered Macmillan. “Would you know of a girl who fits the description?”

  “Depends on who’s asking, and why they want to know,” Pascale answered, and Cosmith’s eyes narrowed.

  Why, the old man knew something!

  “It is we who ask, and for the sake of her kin.” Bos spoke as they heaved their wares onto the rocky street. “She’s been away from her rightful family, who wishes for her return.”

  “I see.” Pascale gave them a sidelong glance. “And what role do you two play in all this?”

  “We’ve come to fetch her,” said Macmillan.

  “How noble of you. Surely, her family must be compensating you for this venture.”

  Son of a dog, thought Cosmith, stunned. Pascale knows! He wanted to bolt upright in th
e wagon, throw the miserable fish and tarp off of himself, and shake the others by their shoulders. Pascale knows everything, you fools, he longed to shout. And he’s playing you like a deck of cards!

  “They’ve offered something, yes,” shrugged Macmillan, unsuccessfully feigning nonchalance, and Cosmith could’ve groaned. For the love of God, Mac. How could the lad be so dense?

  “And why should I help you?” asked Pascale. A question, Cosmith knew, worth fifty pounds of gold.

  “Because we are honest men,” came Bos’s answer. “Whereas Jon Cosmith is not.”

  Cosmith almost snorted.

  “If you don’t help us, you are helping him.”

  “Trust me,” added Macmillan, “you would much rather help us.”

  Cosmith frowned. What nerve.

  “If you know anything, Pascale,” Bos spoke again, “the honorable course of action would be to help us reunite the girl with her family.”

  “All right.” Pascale exhaled. “I know the girl,” he confessed. “And I know of your quest.”

  Finally, thought Cosmith.

  Macmillan gasped.

  “Be not angry with me,” said Pascale, his voice low. “The maiden in question is very dear to my heart. But you make a fair point. It’s not my right to withhold her from her true kin. Especially,” he added significantly, “when she is someone of such importance.”

  The look of surprise that passed between Macmillan and Bos infuriated Cosmith. If the idiots had been paying attention….

  “Now, only because I like you boys, I can bring you to her,” Pascale went on. “But whether she accompanies you will be her choice.”

  “All due respect, Pascale,” Bos said, “but she has a living male relation to speak for her. She must obey his summons. It is the custom.”

  Pascale shot him a faltering look, but apparently chose to ignore the statement.

  “So, you knew, all this time?” pressed Macmillan, and Cosmith massaged his brow.

  “I guessed.” Pascale shrugged, unapologetic. “After we sell my catch, we may go to the bungalow where the girl resides.” The wagon wheels clamored over the stony pavement, and Cosmith had to strain to hear. “She helps run the inn on the Beili Dunes, where you may stay the night. Should she agree to accompany you, I’ll sail you north myself.”

  “How considerably kind of you.” Bos sounded surprised.

  “No offense,” said Pascale, “but it’s for her own safety. I’m sure you understand I cannot send a young lady away alone with two strange men.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Macmillan hastily.

  Bos shrugged. “I would defend her honor.”

  Their conversation ended as they pressed into the busy street and parked the wagons.

  While the others were preoccupied setting up their stand, Cosmith silently slipped out from the bed of cold fish and climbed down the side of the wagon, crouching low. Quietly, he crept away, before breaking into a run.

  First, he desperately needed to cleanse himself and his garments. Next, he would seek out this bungalow inn at the dunes, where Pascale claimed the duchess resided. It couldn’t be difficult to find.

  He couldn’t help but entertain a bounce in his step as he jaunted along the crowded market square. What did it matter that he’d lost a mere twenty-four pieces of gold that morning? He had zeroed in on his target, and was well on his way to becoming fifty whole pounds wealthier.

  DAINY AND PRIYA SPENT THE morning working until the day grew hot, and the cool waves of the Maleilan Sea became irresistibly inviting. By noon, the women abandoned their work, shed their outer garments and ran into the water, bobbing in the salty waves.

  Dainy floated on her back, wearing naught but her shift, while Aunt Priya stood in the shallows.

  The young woman closed her eyes, ducked underwater, and popped back up again, her short hair sticking to her scalp. Beside her, Aunt Priya emitted a playful shriek, followed by a cascade of laughter. She’d been behaving as an entirely different woman, ever since Pascale had returned. It was as though the hands of time had reversed, transforming Priya back into a carefree young maiden.

  “What is it?” Dainy wiped saltwater from her eyelashes.

  Her aunt pointed ashore, where a group of men was approaching. “We’ve been caught!”

  Dainy paddled forward to better examine the newcomers.

  “Dainy, don’t get out, or they shall see you in your shift!”

  “I won’t,” said Dainy. “I’m only looking.”

  “Oh, no.” Priya gasped. “It’s Pascale. He cannot see me like this!”

  Uncle Pascale was indeed among their visitors; she recognized his midnight skin and graceful strides even from the distance. But overshadowing him was an unreasonably massive figure, growing ever larger with each nearing step. Was it possible that a man could grow so tall, she wondered?

  And then there was a third man. Dainy squinted, realizing that both of her uncle’s companions were light-skinned, like her.

  She had seldom found herself in the company of other fair-skinned people. They hardly ever ventured that far south. Beili was a coastal village, at the southernmost tip of the peninsula. It was a far way to travel for anyone, Heppestonian or not.

  Who were these men, and what were they doing with Pascale?

  When it became clear they were headed their way, Priya rang out, “Come no closer, Pascale. We are not proper!”

  “Get dressed,” Pascale advised them. He sounded serious, almost surly. “And meet us inside.”

  Dainy watched as the men disappeared into the bungalow. “What was that about?” she asked her aunt. “Are those men our customers?”

  The mirth was gone from Priya’s face. She looked at Dainy strangely, then reached for her hand. “Dainy, come. I think…it’s time.”

  Dainy followed her ashore, her arms turning to gooseflesh, although she couldn’t name why. “Time for what?”

  BOS WAS AWESTRUCK THE MOMENT he laid eyes upon her, Duchess Eludaine, alive before him. Although she was but a girl and wore only a peasant’s frock, she was as regal and lovley to him as her revered mother had been.

  Bos and Macmillan stood with Pascale, facing the duchess and the innkeeper called Priya as they entered the shanty, adjusting the dry clothes they’d donned. Pascale cleared his throat, about to speak, when a new voice issued from another room.

  “Dainy, Priya? That you? We have a guest!”

  A stocky, beaming black woman entered their midst. She stopped, however, to see Macmillan and Bos. “Oh.…”

  Priya gave her a knowing look.

  “Oh,” the woman mumbled again. “Oh!” Her eyes widened. “Are these the men who—?”

  “Paxiamma,” Priya spoke carefully. “Dainy does not know yet. I think it’s time we tell her.”

  The duchess glanced between the two innkeepers. “Know what? Tell me what?”

  “Now?” Paxiamma glanced anxiously over her shoulder, ignoring her charge. “But we’ve another guest,” she whispered.

  As though on cue, bootsteps resounded in their direction. “Miss Paxi, your plantains are simply marvelous!”

  Bos’s teeth clenched as an infuriatingly familiar figure emerged into the parlor. Hair shining from an evidently recent wash, dressed in his fine cowhide vest and trousers, and reeking of cologne, Jon Cosmith appeared before them, grinning delightedly from ear to ear.

  Bos turned to Macmillan, whose mouth was ajar, and then to Pascale, who slowly folded his arms in dismay.

  Cosmith pretended to jump upon seeing them, grabbing his heart in feigned surprise. “Bos! Mac!” He saluted Pascale. “Aye, Captain,” he greeted somewhat mockingly. “Why, we meet yet again. What another grand coincidence!”

  “Coincidence?” repeated Macmillan, not caring to stifle his hostility before the duchess. “Why, you sneaking, spy
ing, eavesdropping—”

  “Easy, friend. There are ladies present.” Cosmith grinned, tossing back his hair with a winsome wink at the women. “Oh my,” he added abruptly, gazing upon the bronze-skinned Priya, who watched him curiously, clutching her sarong. “I didn’t catch your name, darling.” Cosmith took her hand.

  She smirked. “I’m Priya.”

  Cosmith glanced knowingly between her and Pascale. Pascale shot him a warning look, seeming to confirm Cosmith’s guess. “Of course. Pascale is quite enraptured by your loveliness,” he purred. “I can see why.”

  Priya raised an eyebrow. Pascale’s cheeks glowed, and Cosmith released her hand.

  “And who is this?” Cosmith turned to the duchess, and Bos’s pulse quickened. If the man so much as touched her….

  But the rogue did as he should, and genuflected before her. “Your Royal Highness.” He lowered his gaze respectfully to the floor.

  The girl’s brow pinched together, and she looked uncertainly at Pascale. “Er…Uncle Pasc? What’s going—?”

  “You may rise, Cosmith,” grunted Pascale, his irritation evident.

  Cosmith appeared to consider cracking a joke in response to the command to rise, but thankfully seemed to think better of it. He got to his feet, still eyeing the duchess as though she were a flower whose petals he couldn’t wait to pluck. Bos’s fist clenched at his side. “My, but you are sweeter than the maple’s sap on an autumn day,” Cosmith cooed cloyingly.

  The girl managed to look politely perplexed.

  “But do forgive my foolishness.” He chuckled. “Of course, the maple does not grow in these parts. Although, perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s an enormous tree that grows in the north,” Cosmith explained intimately, as though they were the only two in the room, “in the land where I’m from. In the autumn, it oozes from its bark the most succulent resin.”

  “Like honey?” she asked.