by Zoë Archer
“Something borne upon the water,” Bennett mused. “If the Heirs want it, it must be powerful, and can be used as a weapon.”
“What weapon can be carried on water?” London frowned in thought. “Perhaps a ship of some kind.”
“Or a machine of war,” suggested Kallas. “Like the Trojan Horse.”
They all fell silent, considering the multitudes of possibilities. Those ancients never made the journey a smooth one, not where Sources were concerned. Bennett might have appreciated their foresight if he wasn’t in a sodding life-or-death race.
Suddenly, Athena jumped to her feet, startling everyone. “Virgin Mother! A weapon of that awful power in the hands of the Heirs…they would be invincible. The Blades could do nothing to stop them.”
“Athena, you’re starting at the end,” Bennett said. “Begin at the beginning so we know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Athena looked horrified. “Greek Fire. That is what the Heirs are after.”
Bennett cast back in his mind to the stories of his youth, the tales of adventure his father spun when he’d come into the nursery. “A very old seafaring weapon. It could burn on the water’s surface, and couldn’t be extinguished.”
The witch nodded. “A liquid fire. Used for generations—the Romans had heard of it, and it was said that Greek Fire defended Constantinople from Saracen ships. Then it disappeared.”
“I’ve read of it,” London said. “The theory is that it was invented by a Syrian, Callinicus. Many have speculated about its chemical composition. Some said naphtha, resin, burning pitch, quicklime. It is science, not magic.”
“That’s how Sources hide,” Bennett said, “shrouding themselves in easily accepted fact. If the truth was known about such things, like the origins of gunpowder—”
“Gunpowder isn’t magic!” London exclaimed.
Bennett said, “Tell that to the Chinese wizard who created it from a Fire Demon.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and a smile tugged at her mouth as she looked up at him. “I had no idea. It’s like another Earth has been found existing just beneath the surface of this one.” For a fleeting moment, Bennett and London shared the wonder of discovery, the sheen of adventure, and a reckless happiness careened through him.
Then her smile faded. She remembered who he was, what he’d done. Collecting herself, she asked Athena, “Are we then to believe that this Greek Fire is a Source?”
Bennett wouldn’t let himself be shut out so easily. “Makes sense,” he said. “A terrible waterborne gift. The Heirs would certainly want such a weapon.”
“Control of the sea is everything,” Kallas added. “If the oceans are yours, the world is yours.”
“Then we’ll stop them now,” Bennett said. “We’ll find it first.”
“Where?” asked Athena.
“The island in the form of a dolphin,” Kallas repeated. “I know this place. On the shore, there is a small church and a tiny village. Mostly goats and rocks. It is a day’s sail from here, to the east.”
Athena challenged, “Does it have a stream that sings?”
“If it does,” Kallas shot back, “it is inland, where I never go. The sea is my home. I haven’t got a landlocked palace full of servants and costly baubles, Lady Witch.”
Athena’s fingers twitched as if she meant to cast an unpleasant spell on the tormenting captain.
“Take us to that island,” Bennett said quickly. He didn’t want a mollusk for a captain.
Kallas nodded. “I will need help with the sails.”
Bennett straightened to give his assistance, but Athena surprised everyone by stepping forward.
“This palace-dweller can do it,” she sniffed.
Kallas scowled. From a pocket in his vest, he took his pipe and stuck it between his teeth. “Follow me,” he growled. “Day, you take the helm. Steer us east by northeast, and mind the wind.” Then the captain strode aft with Athena at his heels, mariner and lady determined to show their indifference to each other. It made Bennett smile despite the continued sting of London’s anger.
Bennett did as Kallas ordered, manning the wheel. From his jacket, he pulled out the Compass.
“I have to plot our direction, so I’ll need you to hold this,” he said. When London rose and came to stand beside him, he kept his eyes ahead on their course, but felt her there, just the same. Sharp, pained desire flared in him, their fingers tangling as she relieved him of the Compass. The tips of her fingers were already growing more resilient from use, not quite as soft or pampered as they once had been.
He glanced down at the face of the Compass, marking their position and adjusting the wheel, but it was her hand and her fingers that captivated him.
“This is beautiful,” she said, after examining it. “It feels old, weighty.”
“All Blades carry a Compass. It’s our most precious belonging. We’ll defend them to the death.”
The implications of London being allowed to even touch such a prized object were not lost on her. “I shouldn’t be holding it.” She held it out to him.
“The Compass isn’t just beautiful. It works, has a use and function. If I kept it closed up all the time, it wouldn’t fulfill its purpose.”
She was silent for some time, studying the Compass.
“It was him or me, London,” he said, his eyes on the horizon. “I picked myself, and the Blades.”
“Is it so easy a choice?”
“Never easy.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“So I was supposed to pay a call on you in your cabin and say, ‘I’m the bloke that killed your husband. Let’s have a cup of tea.’”
“Don’t be flippant about this,” she said, eyes sharp and glittering. “Not this.” She began to walk away.
“I need you next to me,” he said. At her hard, questioning look, he said, “To hold the Compass.”
Slowly, she walked back to him, the open Compass in her hands. Her lips pressed tightly together as she deliberately kept her eyes on the horizon and away from him.
He was not used to apologizing. “I’d never hurt you.”
“That would be pleasant to believe.”
Anger erupted, barely checked. “Better that you should be a widow than three hundred Nubians should lose their lives,” he growled. “That’s what your husband did. He killed a whole village for a Source. That Source was used to slaughter thousands in China.”
Color drained from her face, leaving her ashen. “I—”
“And you know what’s the bloody icing on the biscuit?” His laugh felt like a fist as he pushed it from his lungs. “Even though I had to kill Harcourt in Morocco, the Heirs still got their hands on Aisha’s Tears and wiped out half the damned populace of the Gold Coast. Your husband died, but his mission was a success. So take some comfort in that, Mrs. Harcourt.”
He couldn’t look at her, almost afraid of what he’d see.
After a moment, she said, “Hate is such an uncomplicated word. This,” she said, gesturing to the air between them, “is much more tangled.” She closed the Compass and put it into his hand. “I’m sure you can find your own way.”
She went below, leaving him.
Bennett’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. He said nothing when Athena approached him.
“Have you considered a career in diplomacy?” she asked.
He shot her a look, but she did not shrink away.
“She will need some distance,” Athena said, more gently. When Bennett did not answer, she eventually drifted away to help with the sails.
Bennett opened the Compass and stared down at its face. No matter how long he looked at it, he felt himself utterly lost.
Edgeworth kicked his way around the camp, shattering chairs and tables, throwing the cooking pots, scattering ashes from the fire. The imbecile maid bawled from inside her tent, partly from fear, partly from the slap he’d given her. He’d pawn her off on the French archaeologists later. How the maid returned back to Engla
nd was not Edgeworth’s concern.
Chernock and Fraser stood nearby, as did the guards, all watching him with carefully blank expressions. Edgeworth wanted to smash their faces in with a rifle butt. But he needed men for the mission, so he corralled his rage and unleashed it on inanimate objects. It wasn’t very satisfying.
He was being punished. For that’s what it was, a punishment, to see the child of his flesh, his lifeblood, who wore short skirts until she came of age, and then white ball gowns and, finally, a wedding dress. He’d coddled her, kept her sheltered from the viciousness and brutality of the world. She had been given more toys and dolls and dresses than any girl could ever need, her whims and fancies indulged—to a point. She wanted to go to university, but she had a governess instead, long past the age that she might learn anything useful. He’d taken great pains to raise her as a model Englishwoman, to instill in her the values of the nation and shape her into Britain’s feminine ideal.
He still saw London, her mother’s plaything, standing upon the deck of the Blades’ boat, not only standing there, but her hand up to bid him good-bye as one might from the compartment of a train sliding out of the station, until noise and smoke carried them away to their destination. In London’s case, her destination was betrayal, and he was at the platform knowing that he’d bought the ticket for her journey.
By involving a female, he’d violated the sacred principle of the Heirs of Albion, and now punishment had been meted out. He deserved it.
But he couldn’t believe London had betrayed him. It was impossible. He was Joseph Edgeworth. She was his child. Anything other than perfect obedience from his daughter was unthinkable.
Edgeworth stood, panting, in the midst of the wreckage. Finally, Chernock picked his way to him, around the destroyed furniture and shredded tents.
“Day is a Lothario,” the sorcerer said. “He obviously seduced the girl. It was no fault of your own.”
Edgeworth seized upon this. “Yes—seduced. That has to be the reason. The female will is feeble, no matter her intellect. Even my own daughter is just a woman. Her emotions led her astray.” Grim but comforted, Edgeworth felt the cloud of rage dissipate. “Day is a master at manipulating females. Who knows what kind of nonsense he’s put into her head?”
Fraser, his face bruised and blood-crusted, grunted. “Next time I see Day, I’ll cut his fucking balls off.” There were probably scores of men across Europe who’d gladly queue up for the same privilege.
“I could summon a storm,” Chernock offered. “Cripple their boat.”
“No,” Edgeworth said. “I won’t put London in peril. I’m certain that if we take her back from Day, away from his influence, she’ll see how she had been misled.”
Edgeworth did not see the quick, exchanged glances between Chernock and Fraser.
“We need to find out where they’re going,” Edgeworth continued. “London said she couldn’t decipher the ruins, but likely Day had convinced her to lie.”
“But what if the Blades get to the Source first?” Fraser asked, plaintive. “The Heirs need it. It took us years to decipher the tablet that led us here.”
“Greek Fire is born of the sun,” Chernock recited. He’d read the tablet, too, many times, and none of the Heirs had been able to determine its significance. Not until the discovery on Delos. Then the pieces began to fall together.
“Greek Fire will give the British Navy unlimited power on the sea,” Fraser said. “But without a means to understand the Delos ruins, we’re running blind out here trying to find it.”
Chernock gave one of his awful smiles. “Gentlemen, don’t concern yourself. I’ve a reliable method of tracking them. All I’ll need,” he added, drawing a wicked, black-bladed dagger from his belt, “is a little blood.”
It was easier to focus on learning to sail than how to live her newfound life. As soon as London began to contemplate what this meant—homeless, friendless, virtually orphaned—she felt a gaping chasm open inside her, and, rather than tumble down into it, she kept herself busy throughout the day. If she could not walk steadily on land, then she vowed to conquer her place on the sea.
The steamships she’d taken from England to Greece, even the smaller ship on which she’d traveled from Athens to Delos, had been noisy machines belching smoke, riding high in the waves. She had thought the sea pretty before, but now, on the elegant caique skimming across the surface of the Aegean, London felt herself tumble into a kind of desperate, lonely love with the glittering sapphire water, the pellucid sky, the white and green islands in scattered handfuls, thrown by an indulgent god. Out here, she could pretend that she was a creature of the elements and nothing else mattered but sun and wind and water. The sea gave her complete freedom, and yet, its endless expanse made her small. She was herself an island, alone in vast, empty waters. This was a new life, and it was sweet and bitter.
Everything would have to be learned. Yet she commanded one realm, that of language. Words in their many shapes and sounds were hers, their power was hers, and she held it tightly as one might clutch at unstrung pearls, hoarding and proud.
Nikos Kallas was a gruff little bull of a man, but an able teacher. He showed them all the parts of the sails and masts, the multitude of ropes and lines, how to judge a good wind and the best ways to ride it. They each took a turn at the wheel, even Athena and London, but it was the captain’s privilege to man the helm, for he loved his boat with an intractable pride and would suffer few to tame her.
In the bright glare of the day, Kallas and Athena squabbled over the god Zeus. Athena considered him a remorseless philanderer whose peccadilloes cost untold human suffering. Kallas insisted the god had a natural right to share his divine glory with as many women as he liked, and Hera’s demands for fidelity were too great. Neither the lady nor the captain seemed willing to concede.
London listened to them as she practiced tying knots with a length of rope she’d begged from Kallas. Figure eights, monkey fists, Turk’s heads. Hitches and splices, each with their own personalities. She worked, cross-legged on the deck, until her hands turned red and throbbed, but she would not stop, not for a moment, because to stop meant being alone with her thoughts.
“Be careful of your hands, or they’ll turn to pulp.”
She looked up at Day, then back down at the rope in her hands, feeling burned by his image as he stood close by. His jacket and waistcoat were gone in the heat of the afternoon, so he wore only snug trousers, braces, tall boots, and a shirt, open-necked and sleeves rolled up, revealing the lean muscles of his throat, the planes of his upper chest, powerful forearms. The wind tousled his dark hair like a paramour.
“The knots have their own language,” she said. “And I will learn it.” She hoped he would mistake the flush in her cheeks for the effects of the sun.
He took the rope from her and began to coil it the way Kallas had shown them. She could not stop watching the movement of Day’s long, nimble hands, those hands that were so deft but also potently masculine.
“Can’t see Joseph Edgeworth encouraging and overseeing his daughter’s linguistic studies,” he said. “I thought the Heirs liked their women strictly decorative.”
“They do. I am…” she began, then corrected herself, “was an anomaly. No one knew. It was my secret. I taught myself.”
“How?”
“It started as an accident. I found a Latin book belonging to my father—must have been about five or six. Tacitus’s Annales. That’s where it started.”
“Bloody hell,” Bennett swore. “When I was five, I was busy putting snails down my brother’s collar. Not reading Roman historians.”
London could not stop the smile that curved her mouth, but she did not let it live long. She focused on the red flesh of her palms. “I scrounged for more books and moved on to Greek, ancient and modern, then the usual assortment. French, German, Italian, Spanish. But I liked the ancient languages best. As soon as I got pin money, I’d spend it on books, even send away for them. I told m
y mother and Lawrence they were etiquette manuals.”
“And no one ever found out.”
“Not until a month ago.”
“Your father.”
She nodded. “He said it was for archaeology, and I believed him.” The clarity of loneliness surrounded her, made her tiny and lost.
“It is a kind of archaeology,” Bennett said, and his voice anchored her before she drifted away entirely. She wondered if he knew that, if it was deliberate, but didn’t want to think so. “The Heirs search out and dig up the world’s magic, and the Blades try and stop them, keep the magic safely hidden.”
She unfolded her legs and stood, putting her face into the wind, glad that she was ruining her prized porcelain complexion, a relic of her old life. “Magic truly exists. It’s still so difficult to believe. I’d never seen it before I came to Greece.”
He let the rope unwind, then began to coil it again. Somehow, it comforted her to know that he needed to keep busy, just as she did. “You’ve seen magic before, everyone has.”
“Of course I haven’t,” she said at once.
“That’s even harder to believe. There must have been some time that you saw something, something you believed was magical, but it was explained away. It happened when you were a child, I’d wager.”
“Why as a child?”
“Children are open to magic.” He took one end of the rope and began to tie it in a simple square knot. “They’re newer to this world; their minds aren’t shut and demanding logic like adults.”
A gleam of recollection flickered through her mind. “Wait…I think…” She tried to grasp it.
He stopped his busywork. “A memory?”
“Perhaps,” she said slowly. “I think that when I was a child, I thought a pixie used to visit me at night.” Speaking of it sharpened the remembrance. She spoke more eagerly. “It had dragonfly wings, and its skin was the color of opals. It wore a tiny cap decorated with a hummingbird feather.”
“Did it have a name?”
London searched the caverns of her memory. “I believe…it called itself Bryn.”