by K A Dowling
“Besides yourself?” Alexander asks.
“Aye, well, another, then. He’s put up a right stink about being held upon the bowsprit, says as he knows ye.”
Now that the door is open, Emerala can hear the sound of raised voices drifting in upon the distant murmur of the waves. Someone curses, his gruff shout lost within the buffeting breeze that snaps at the sails overhead. Over it all, she can hear the guttural screaming of several agitated seagulls.
“Why didn’t Thom send for me?” Alexander rises from his seat, the pillow on his lap falling forgotten to the floor.
“Your first mate’s been hollering his fool head off since the moment the boarder stepped foot on deck, says we en’t like to make exceptions for…” the Lethal pauses, snapping the fingers of his right hand as though eager to recall the exact wording used by the portly quartermaster. “Ah yes,” he says at last, and Emerala can see the gold of his teeth catching in the blood orange sunlight. “a poxed, Senadian swab.”
The wind outside dies down with a tired sputter. In the sudden quiet the sound of overlapping shouts reaches their ears. Emerala studies Alexander’s face, watching to see what he will do. She is surprised to see a look of delight pass over the captain’s features. He turns to face her, fighting unsuccessfully to keep his expression blank.
“You,” he barks, rather needlessly. There could have been no mistaking to whom he was about to give orders. “Stay put.”
“But—”
“Do as I say,” he snaps brusquely. He glances up at the Lethal. “Come with me. Put two men on starboard, you take port. Keep your eyes peeled and your hand by your cutlass. There’s no telling who else might decide to drop by, this close to the Agran Circle.”
“Aye,” the Lethal says. His face, as usual, betrays no emotions. The two men abscond from her sight. The door slams shut behind them.
And then she is alone with Evander the Hawk. He meanders toward the door, his swarthy figure melting into the frame. His eyes never leave her face. The sight of him causes an unexpected shiver to run down her spine.
“Cold, are you?” he asks, still smiling. “In this heat?”
“Heat?” The air inside Alexander’s quarters is stale but comfortable—silvery dust motes hang suspended in the last remaining trickles of scarlet light that spills in through the soiled windows. “We were in the north only—”
She trails off, uncertain of the date. How long has she been asleep? At the door, the Hawk seems to have read her mind.
“You’ve been asleep nearly a fornight. You were on the edge of death when we found you, Rogue. It’s a miracle we did.”
“Is it?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. “I was with you, wasn’t I?”
“You were,” the Hawk agrees. “At the Frost Forts. I told you to run, do you remember?”
She blinks, straining to grab hold of something—anything—that will tether her to reality. She remembers his face, spattered in blood, his hair matted to his cheeks. She remembers his voice, hoarse against the sound of steel against steel.
Rogue. Run. Now.
“I suppose—” she begins, stopping again, unable to summon any coherent sort of memory. Glancing up, she meets his golden eyes across the fading light. “Where are we now?”
“We’re drawing just north of the Agran Circle.” A crooked smile splits his lips. “The Leviathan lives below these waters, here.”
“Leviathan?” she repeats, confused.
“I’d reckon you’ve never heard of anything like it back in Chancey.” His piercing gaze unnerves her. Instinctively, she draws the blanket to her chin.
“Can’t say that I have. What is it?”
“It’s a scaled serpent that lives deep beneath the ocean. They say its breath is so hot that wherever it swims, the water grows warm. Sometimes the heat is enough to make the surface bubble.”
Emerala studies his face for any sign of skepticism. “And you believe that?”
“Me? No. But you’ve spent enough time in the company of pirates by now to know that we’re a superstitious lot. Keep watch—you’ll see the men crossing themselves whenever they pass too close to port and starboard.”
Emerala stares back at him, saying nothing. His golden gaze is unwavering—unapologetic.
Unnerving.
She averts her attention to the empty space above his head, suppressing the sudden chill that tickles the top of her spine.
“Why aren’t you up at the front of the ship with the rest?” she asks. “Isn’t there some sort of visitor for you to harass?”
The Hawk shrugs, the hair on his chest glinting first gold then red in the fading sunlight. “I’ve no interest in diplomats. Hang the bloody lot of them.”
“He’s a diplomat?” she asks, sitting up straighter.
“Aye. A wealthy one, at that.”
“We must be close to land, then.”
He nods, eying her closely. “We’re about a day’s sail off the port of Senada.”
“Senada? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”
“Strange,” he says slowly, the wickedness in his grin giving way to amusement. “I should think you would be familiar with its location, given that it shares a strait with the island of Caira.”
Caira. The name causes a surge of blood to rush to her head, pressing against the backs of her eyelids. She springs to her feet, ignoring the pins in her fingers and toes. Her legs tremble beneath her weight. She pushes forward, shaking out her fingers as she maneuvers closer to the door. At the sight of her approach, the Hawk pushes himself out of the doorframe and moves to block the opening.
“Where are you going?”
“I think I’d like to meet this diplomat,” she says. She moves to push past him but he steps directly in front of her, cutting her off. His breath tickles the tip of her nose. She can smell the sweat off of his skin, brackish and inebriating, like he is leaking rum from his pores. She averts her eyes, trying in vain to gaze over the tops of his shoulders. “I’d thank you to get out of my way.”
“Cap’n said you’re not to step foot outside of this room, I heard him.”
“Since when you do you care what Alexander wants?” she retorts.
“When it comes to you, we generally want the same thing.”
“Is that right?” Emerala snaps. “And what, exactly, is that?”
The Hawk pauses for the breath of a second, his tongue darting over his lower lip. Again, that unsettling golden gaze searches her face.
“We want you to follow orders and stay put,” he says, a sense of finality in his tone.
“To the Dark Below with him,” she mutters, pushing past him with a shove. She turns up her nose and adds, “And you as well.”
Slipping through the door, she races across the deck of the ship. Her bare feet drag against the splinters in the wood. She is keenly aware of the Hawk tagging along behind her, never more than a few feet away. She does her level best to ignore him, bunching up her skirts within her fists.
Up ahead, Alexander stands just beneath the bowsprit, his arm outstretched as he shakes the hand of a shadowed man before him. She draws to a stop a few feet away from them just as the stranger—the diplomat—turns toward her. His eyes widen at the sight of her, his mouth falling open as he takes in her bedraggled countenance—her wild hair and her dark, emerald gaze.
She, too, surveys the newcomer in silence. He is handsome—tall—with a polished posture and upturned chin. His jaw is strong and clean-shaven. His deep, dark eyes are as black as the night. His hair, neatly brushed back from the widow’s whorl at the middle of his forehead, is as golden as a sunrise. He looks impossibly familiar, and yet she is certain she has never before lain eyes on him. How could she have? She has never left Chancey—has never been to Senada.
And yet the sight of the man before her tugs at her memory, teasing at the corners as the answer—if there is one—dances just out of her reach.
A smile breaks out across the newcomer’s face—dimpling his chin—ju
st as the smile upon Alexander’s fades to a grimace. He shares a silent look of consternation with the Hawk as the lanky pirate draws to Emerala’s side with a shrug.
“Where are my manners?” the diplomat asks. His voice is as deep and as rich as his dark gaze. Emerala is startled by the familiarity of his accent.
He’s a Chancian, she realizes.
He bows, taking Emerala’s hand in his own. His lips graze against her knuckles. “Alex, you never told me you had such a lovely woman gracing the holds of your ship. Good evening to you, my lady.”
At her side, the Hawk snorts. Emerala ignores him.
“Hello,” she says.
“This is Derek,” Alexander proffers, still glowering at Emerala. “He’s a very old friend.”
“You wouldn’t know that,” Derek says, letting Emerala’s hand drop. “Not after all the trouble I had climbing onboard your ship.”
“Right, well.” Alexander pulls at his scruff. “The crew has been jumpy ever since our visit to the Eisle.”
“Understandably so,” Derek assents, and gives a theatrical shudder. “Saints, what an awful place. Why you would venture there at this time of year, I’ll never know. We can both agree that the map is of great importance, my friend, but could it not have waited until the snow thawed?”
“It couldn’t.” Alexander’s response is too quick—too sharp. “You know it couldn’t. The cost of waiting would have been—”
“Astronomical,” Derek finishes, flashing Alexander a smile. “You’re all too right, my friend, as always. In that case, I’m pleased to see you and your crew made it out unscathed.”
“We did.”
The sterling moon, as round as a disk, has risen out from behind the undulating black sails that loom overhead. Only a minute tinge of deep red daylight sits upon the edge of the sky. Emerala can barely contain herself any longer—her curiosity has been piqued, and she’s never been the patient type.
She turns to Alexander, her eyes bright. “We’re going to Caira?” Excitement crowds her words together, rendering them nearly incoherent. Alexander looks as though he has tasted something sour. Reaching up with one hand, he tugs at the rim of his cap. The muted light of the moon cuts across his jaw in strips of silver. A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he says nothing.
“She’s a woman with a sense of adventure,” Derek marvels, his black eyes glittering. “How extraordinary!”
Emerala smiles at that, liking the genial nature of the well-dressed man in spite of herself. Back on Chancey she would have detested him and everything he stood for—hated his fineries, his mannerisms, the very smile on his face. Here, out on the rolling sea, she takes comfort in his familiarity.
“Are we?” Emerala asks Alexander. “Going to Caira, I mean?”
“I’m going to Caira,” he replies, his voice dark. “The Hawk is going to Caira. Derek, here, is going to Caira. You’re staying here.”
“But—”
“This isn’t up for debate, Rogue.”
“You may need me,” she argues.
“We won’t.”
“You couldn’t have done what you needed to do at the Eisle of Udire without me.”
Derek’s laugh resonates across the deck, the echo swallowed by the rolling waves. He slaps Alexander on the back, his winning smile bright in the moonlight.
“She’s full of fire,” Derek barks. “I love it.”
“I’m sure you do,” Alexander gripes.
“Keeps you on your toes, does she? That’s just what you need in a woman, Alex.”
Alexander’s face catches ablaze, turning crimson from the end of his nose to the tips of his ears. “She’s not—”
But Emerala beats him to the punch. “I’m not his woman.”
“No?” Derek asks. “Then under what capacity are you here? You’ll excuse me for wondering, but women aren’t common sights at sea.”
“I’m a member of the crew,” Emerala explains.
“She’s not that, either.” Alexander assures Derek, traces of red lingering beneath his skin. “And she’s not coming with us to Caira.”
Emerala’s arms knot across her chest. “And why not?”
“Because it isn’t safe.”
“And the Eisle of Udire was—what—a stroll through the park?”
Alexander opens his mouth to retort, but Derek cuts him off, that same, genial smile ever present on his lips.
“Surely it’s no less safe for her than it is for us.” He winks at her, one black eye disappearing and reappearing.
For the first time in several moments, the Hawk speaks. “Agree to disagree, mate,” he says. He moves in close to Emerala, the inked skin of his arm brushing against her shoulder. The stance is protective—possessive. Emerala bristles at his proximity, that same unnatural chill coursing through her. Across the deck, Alexander watches the two of them through unblinking hazel eyes, his jaw locked.
“This is Emerala the Rogue,” the Hawk explains. “A Cairan.”
Derek’s finely manicured brows pull together at the revelation. He scrutinizes her closely, his nose wrinkling.
“Surely not,” he reasons. “I thought all Cairans were born with rather distinct blue eyes.”
“Aye, that may be so, but this girl’s a half blood.”
At that, Derek blanches, his face draining of color. “Emerala the Rogue, did you say?”
“I didn’t say,” she mutters, “but yes.”
Derek draws several steps closer to her across the deck of the ship, still studying her face with renewed interest. “Yes,” he says, more to himself than to her. “Yes, I see it now. Those are lovely green eyes you have. Like jewels.”
She hesitates before responding. “Thank you.” Her skin has gone cold.
“Might I ask which parent gave you those eyes? Your mother or your father?”
Emerala is suddenly thrust backwards through her memories, pulled back to that fleeting moment in a narrow alleyway where the Hawk had thrust the ivory dagger into her hands.
Was it your mother or your father that gave you those lovely green eyes?
Now, she feels the pirate tense at her side, the muscles in his arm going rigid.
“My father,” she whispers, the chill in her veins turning to ice.
Derek turns to Alexander, forcing a smile. “What have you gotten into, my friend?”
Before Alexander can reply, he continues, “She will accompany us to the island. It won’t be safe for her on the ship, not with the anchor being dropped so close to Domio and his spies.”
Alexander scowls. “You expect me to believe it will be safer on the island?”
Overhead, the wind picks up, causing the fluttering black banner upon the foremast to snap and sputter upon the post. The simple white skull grins down at them from the curling flag. To Emerala, it feels like an omen. She shudders and thinks of the crew crossing themselves as protection against portents and superstitions.
“Likely not,” Derek admits, “But there is little other choice. If we want her to live—and I’m fairly certain that you do—it is imperative that we keep her identity hidden from Domio. I’m afraid it was a poor decision, old friend, to bring Emerala the Rogue to the Agran Circle.”
Harvest Cycle 1511
Something is wrong.
Two moons past, I woke in the night to an uproar. Charles Argot is gone. He left without a word, disappeared as a lark with the breaking of the dawn. The map went with him. This does not bode well for us.
The young Hawk is positively crowing with righteous indignation, but the crew will have none of it. He continues to remind me that he never trusted the mapmaker, not for a moment. He has sold my soul for a handsome price, the boy is certain of it.
Captain Samuel listens only in silence. He will not meet my gaze.
In the muted grey of this early morning a second ship appeared on the horizon. She is gaining upon us far too quickly for it to be a coincidence that she is there. The black sails have swallowed the westward winds
like a voracious whale. It will not be long before she reaches us.
And what, then?
What, then?
I am not a religious man, but I pray that wherever Charles Argot has gone, his word and his honor were enough to buy his loyalty. I pray that I remain alive long enough to deliver my burden to the shores of the Westerlies.
My faith in my journey must not be shaken. We will keep to the course.
We will hoist the colors.
Eliot
CHAPTER 26
Chancey
Sometimes, against the pervading darkness of the night, Seranai the Fair finds herself struggling to keep her demons at bay.
She leans back against the warm brick wall of Mamere Lenora’s and listens to the barely subdued sounds of lovemaking that filter down through the soiled windows overhead. The night is dark, to be sure. Black as pitch, even. The moon is at the end of its cycle, ready to rebirth in a silvery travail, dragging its empty, white light upon the cobbled stones of Chancey.
She, too, feels as hollow as the moon’s empty echo. She tilts her chin upward, her pallid skin glowing in the orange light that flickers out from a second story window. She is a woman in limbo—frozen in time as she awaits her next move. She frowns, the lines around her mouth deepening as the corners of her lips pull downward. Somewhere up above, she hears a faint clattering noise. A light fizzles out, pitting one section of the street before her in increasing shadow. There is a giggle, hushed, then silence. Somewhere off in the darkness, a stray cat yowls.
When will it be time?
She recalls again the Hawk’s last, ominous caveat, delivered to her among the peeling wallpaper of the brothel during that first meeting.
There may be blood shed, before the end, he warned her, his golden eyes glittering in the candlelight. There will be casualties.
Her fingernails drive themselves hard into the palms of her hands at the memory, and she fights to keep her thoughts from drifting further back—from calling into memory the wet copper reek of pooling blood, from her father’s lips opening and closing like a fish as he lay dying on the slab of stone before her.
She thinks, instead, of Nerani the Elegant. Is she the type of casualty the Hawk was thinking of the first day he and Seranai met?