The huge creature made a deep thrumming noise in its throat, startling Cynthia until she realized that it was merely a noncommittal grumble of deep thought. He must agree to help, she thought desperately, though she kept her face blank. All I’m asking for are a couple of scouts; it’s the only way to find my son! She waited, impatiently swirling her hands through the chill water.
Chaser tapped her shoulder and made a covert sign of caution, then signed, *The master of the undine will not be commanded, Seamage Flaxal Brelak.*
*Neither will I,* she signed back, clear enough for everyone to read. *I have not commanded him, only requested his help in my task. The decision is his.*
*Yes,* the schoolmaster signed, abruptly moving out of his grotto until his entire bulk was visible, *it is my decision, Seamage Flaxal Brelak, and though you are powerful, so are the undine. We will aid you this time, but know that you are no friend of the undine.* He snapped his cavernous jaws so close to her that the resultant current actually rocked her backward, then he retreated back into his grotto. *We, too, make formidable enemies, Seamage. Choose your enemies with more care than you choose your friends.*
The schoolmaster gestured, and two small undine swam forward from another grotto.
*These are two of my best scouts. If they perish in your service, Seamage, you will have chosen poorly in your selection of enemies.* The Schoolmaster waved a huge hand in dismissal. *Go now, and may the gods of the deep aid you, or grant you a quick death.*
Chaser tapped her on the shoulder again and signed, *We should go now, Seamage Flaxal Brelak.*
*Yes, Chaser, * she agreed, *we’ve gotten what we came for. Let’s go back up to the light.*
Chapter 5
Transitions
A tap at the door roused Emil Norris from a light slumber. The early morning sun glowed through the mosquito netting draped across the archway to his balcony, gently rousing him as it brightened. At first he thought the noise had been a dream, until another knock sounded, firmer but still tentative. He rolled over…and froze.
A cascade of crimson hair flowed over the pillow next to him, framing Camilla’s lovely face, only inches away.
What in the name of… His mind raced, then the memories of the previous evening flooded back.
With the letters for the emperor safely en route to Tsing aboard the Flothrindel, a huge weight had lifted off of their shoulders. Emil and Camilla had toasted one another with a fine red wine and watched the sun set. Their responsibilities to Cynthia Flaxal and the Empire of Tsing fulfilled, they had nothing more to do until His Majesty sent another ship, or Cynthia returned.
Camilla had arranged a fabulous dinner: lobster fresh from the lagoon, thinly sliced papaya, and a half dozen other treats he scarce remembered. The wine—strong, heady and plentiful—had encouraged conversation. Words had flowed easily as a river, at first slow and trivial, then building until they rushed so hard and fast that the walls each of them had erected around their wounded souls broke like a dam before a flood. How little they had truly known about each other. Her tears had wetted his shoulder as she told him of her long years imprisoned by Bloodwind, of how he had finally broken her will, of the death of her father. Only when she confessed to thrusting a dagger into Bloodwind’s vile heart with her own hand, had her tears ceased to flow and her voice gone hard.
In return, he told her what he had admitted to no one else in the world. He acknowledged the wracking guilt he had felt over the loss of his family, how he had convinced himself that it was his own fault, that if only the empire had been a safer place, they need not have died. His own personal crusade had led him here to Plume Isle, determined to root out evil even where it, apparently, didn’t exist. And he had shed his own tears when he considered the thousands of sailors and soldiers on the Clairissa and Fire Drake who had paid with their lives for his misguided hubris.
The crescent moon was high in the sky before they fell silent, their secrets revealed, their tears spent…then there was no more need for words. Two injured souls found solace in one another, shared the miseries of their pasts and, together, become whole again.
Another knock, and Camilla’s eyes fluttered open. Startlement, recognition, then memory flashed across her beautiful face over the span of several heartbeats. He smiled rather sheepishly, and her wonderful, sensuous lips curled up at the corners in answer.
“Someone’s at the door,” he whispered, moving to rise. “Stay here. I’ll get it.”
“But it’s early! Who would be…”
“I don’t know, but don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.” He reassured her with a smile while donning a robe, and left the bedroom.
The sitting room was a shambles: plates, glasses, two empty wine bottles, and a platter of half-eaten sweets cluttered the low table, and articles of clothing were strewn all over the furniture and floor. Emil quickly gathered up Camilla’s discarded dress, corset, petticoats, and assorted undergarments and draped them over a chair out of sight of the doorway. He then straightened his robe and reached for the door. That was when he got his second surprise of the morning.
“It be about bloody time, yer Countship!” Paska declared, elbowing him aside and striding into the suite. “I be knockin’ half de day!” She bore a huge tray laden with covered plates, pots, and bowls, as well as an entire tea and blackbrew service. Behind her, two brawny men carried in a huge copper tub, followed by an entire train of grinning native men and women bearing steaming buckets, towels, soap and brushes.
“What in the name of—”
“Dis is just oua way of sayin’ tank’e to you, yer Countship. You done de one t’ing I been tryin’ to get done fer near two year now, and you done it wit’out even tryin!” Paska handed him the tray, put her strong hands on his shoulders, and turned him around. “Now you just take dat right back to bed and tell Miss Cammy to eat hearty.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Oh, yes you done did, yer Countship!” She laughed loud and hard, clapping him on the shoulder with such force that he almost dropped the tray. “You two done worked up an appetite, I don’t wonda! Now eat up and come out fer your bath before de wata get cold!” She pushed him into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him. The sound of laughter and buckets of water being poured into the tub sounded clearly through the closed portal.
“How did they…” He looked to Camilla, who was sitting up in bed, the coverlet drawn up to her neck, a mirthful smile on her beautiful face.
“It’s a small island, Emil,” she said, patting the bed beside her. “Everyone knows everything about everybody else here. Come and sit, before you drop the tray.”
He sat as ordered and placed the huge tray between them. “I still don’t understand how that woman could have known that we…that you and I…well…you know.”
“What I don’t understand is how they managed to get all this done before daybreak,” she said, setting aside the cover of one plate. She picked up a slice of mango and one of cheese, then took a bite of each, closing her eyes in bliss as she slowly chewed. Then she uncovered more plates, revealing poached eggs, fresh biscuits, butter, a pot of preserves, a rasher of bacon and a pile of sausages.
“Well,” she said with a smile, “are you going pour some tea for me, or just sit there with your mouth hanging open?” She cut a bit of sausage, dredged it through an egg yolk and force-fed it to him.
It was, he had to admit, utterly delicious. He poured her tea as he chewed, and was spreading a dollop of preserves over a hot biscuit when a sudden thought occurred to him, and he wrinkled his brow.
“Do you think Tim knows, too?” he asked before taking a bite.
“Probably,” Camilla said as she poured a cup of blackbrew, added some milk, and handed it to him. “But don’t let it worry you, Emil. He’s been around the natives long enough to know what happens between men
and women.”
“He has?” he said, nearly choking on his biscuit. He washed down the bite with blackbrew. “But he’s only…”
“He’s old enough,” she said, sipping her tea and smiling at him. “Don’t worry, Emil. They’re happy for us, that’s all. Now eat! I don’t want the water to get cold before we can bathe.”
“Before we can…” If the previous surprise had disconcerted him, this one delighted him. Emil dug in to his breakfast, finding that he had indeed worked up an appetite.
≈
“Tipos! Wake up!” Keyloo grabbed his foot and shook it. “You gotta see this!”
“See what?” Tipos asked, noting that it was barely light outside. “It’s not my watch until mid-morning!”
“We’re passing Rockport, and there must be a dozen warships in the harbor!”
“Warships!” That got him out of his hammock faster than if the boat had been sinking. His bare feet slapped the companionway steps and he held out his hand for the viewing glass, then squinted into the morning sun. A glance confirmed Keyloo’s claim, but his estimate of their number had been low. “More like a dozen and a half,” he said as rubbed sleep from his eyes and looked again. But they were already sailing beyond the great rock that had earned the harbor its name.
“Wear ship, Keyloo. I need to see this.” His orders were followed without a word, and Flothrindel jibed sweetly, her boom sweeping over the little cockpit, the sail filling with a crack. They came around to a southerly course in the span of only a few breaths. “Good! Now bring her up ‘till she luffs.”
“Aye,” Keyloo said, steering while Tawah handled the sheets. As the boat came up into the wind, Tipos hopped up onto the low coach roof, grasped the mast and peered at the forest of spars that crowded Rockport harbor.
“Bloody hells,” he muttered, tallying the ships, estimating how many men were aboard them. “Three of ‘em are almost as big as that Clairissa! And there’s thirteen others, as well!” He lowered the glass and stared. “Must be near seven thousand men!”
“Seven thousand…” Tawah gaped at the number. “That’s more people than in all the Shattered Isles!”
“Aye, and they’re all warriors,” Keyloo said, his tone grim. “You suppose we should go in there and present the count’s package to their leader?”
“It’d be a sight shorter trip than goin’ all the way up to Tsing,” Tawah agreed, “and it might keep ‘em from doin’ somethin’ bad. Somethin’ very bad.”
“Somethin’ like slaughterin’ every man, woman and child on Plume Isle,” Keyloo suggested.
Tipos shook his head, perplexed by this unexpected situation and disturbed by his mates’ visions of doom. “There’s no way that ship Lady Gwen even reached Tsing yet, never you mind her coming back with all these warships. These must have been here already…waiting. The question is: do they know what happened? If they don’t, and we tell them, will these letters ever get to Tsing, or will we be dancing from a yardarm?” Silently, he weighed his options. If they hurried, they could reach Tsing in five more days, talk to the emperor, convince him not to destroy their people, and return in another week. Would the commander of this fleet stay his hand that long? If he didn’t…
“With the Shambata Daroo gone, Plume Isle is defenseless.”
“Yes, but they don’t know she’s gone,” Tipos countered, looking back to the fleet of warships and squinting in thought. “They will not attack; not after what happened to their flagship. Fear will hold them back, maybe long enough for us to get word to the emperor and come back.”
“Maybe.” Keyloo’s tone clearly said that he didn’t agree with Tipos’ logic.
“Maybe,” Tipos reiterated. “But one thing for sure: I was told by the Shambata Daroo herself to take these letters to His Majesty the emperor, and none other. If they end up in the hands of some navy officer, the emperor might never know the truth.”
He gritted his teeth and made his decision.
“We sail on to Tsing, as fast as Flothrindel will go!” Tipos hopped down into the cockpit, snapped closed the viewing glass and pointed north. “Tack her, Keyloo, and mind your sheets! If we crack on, we might just get back before everyone we know is killed.”
≈
“Remember, Mister Huffington,” Master Upton said, “into His Majesty’s hand only. The only other person who may look in this satchel is His Majesty’s bodyguard.” The master of security placed a hand on Huffington’s shoulder in a seemingly nonchalant manner, but Huffington felt the weight of responsibility in the gesture. Count Norris had always exhibited great caution when dealing with this man, whom he called the emperor’s spymaster. Huffington tried not to shudder.
“So you told me, sir, and so I’ll do.” Huffington shouldered the heavy leather satchel. Not only did it contain dispatches to the emperor from both Upton and the admiral, but also two lead ingots; if necessary, he could toss the satchel overboard and its secrets would be safe forever.
“There is sensitive information in that satchel—extremely sensitive information—that could make or break men’s careers, and perhaps cost or save lives. Have a care that it does not fall into the wrong hands.” Upton patted his shoulder and removed his hand.
“Excuse me, sir,” Huffington said, finally dredging up the courage to ask the question that had been nagging him since the previous evening. “But why me? You have aides…”
Upton stared at him with cold eyes. “You are a witness to the loss of His Majesty’s flagship, and your observations are...untainted by opinion or prejudice. In politics, there are few who are entirely trustworthy; even my own aides may have been compromised. I have…researched your background, and believe that I can trust you. You have worked yourself into a comfortable position as Count Norris’ secretary, but I know that you have other useful skills, including discretion.”
Oh dear gods, Huffington thought. What does he know?
Upton laughed shortly. “If you didn’t want to bring attention to yourself, you should have refrained from requesting an audience with His Majesty to discuss your views of the situation with the seamage. Do you not think we look into the backgrounds of those who will be near His person? It is my job to know everything about everyone, Mister Huffington. And I believe I can trust you.” He cast an appraising eye over Huffington, then handed him a letter sealed with wax and the imprint of a ring. “This letter will gain you an audience with the emperor. Do not fail me.”
“I’ll deliver the message and bring back His Majesty’s reply, Master Upton, whatever it may be.” He tucked the letter inside his waistcoat and nodded.
“Very good. Farewell, then.”
Huffington shook the spymaster’s outstretched hand. The grip was strong, almost painfully so, and he wondered if it was a warning. He turned and boarded the small craft that Upton had requisitioned for the trip, a trim little fishing smack from the local fleet. The smack would make the trip in half the time it would take an imperial launch, and had an enclosed cabin, even if it did stink of fish.
Four hearty imperial sailors had been assigned the task of taking him to Tsing with all haste, and as they cast off the lines and hoisted sail, it was easy to see that they knew their business. They would reach Tsing in a week if the trade winds held true, sooner if a single god smiled on their venture. Not that Huffington was a religious man. In his line of work, one could not afford to put one’s values over one’s duty.
He huddled in the small cabin and ignored the smack’s boisterous crew, tucking the satchel under his head and closing his eyes, not even wondering at what lay within the stout leather bag. Curiosity could also be deadly to one in his position. What he did wonder, however, as he tried to force himself to sleep, was exactly what his position had become.
≈
“The trade winds are flagging,” Cynthia said to Chula as she paced the
afterdeck of Peggy’s Dream, her eyes drawn up to the sails. She could feel the winds course through the rigging—filling, pulling, urging the ships along, but not fast enough.
“Aye, Capt’n. We be flyin’ every stitch of canvas she’ll hoist, but we’ve lost t’ree knots since de end of de mid-watch.” He peered to windward and she followed his gaze; the swells had lost their white caps, and there were even patches of slick, airless sea interspersed among them. A bad sign. “Comin’ inta de doldrums, I’m t’inkin’.”
“Sooner than I thought,” she said as she peered back at Orin’s Pride, which was also flying all her canvas but losing headway. They were less than a full day’s sail south of the Fathomless Reaches, and though they had been making excellent time, that was changing quickly. Cynthia caught a glimpse of something flying between the ships; Mouse, with another message. She and Feldrin had been using the sprite to pass notes, as it was much quicker and easier than communicating by signal. Mouse landed on her shoulder with a chirp and handed her the rolled piece of paper.
“Thank you, Mouse,” she said absently. Cynthia read the note and frowned; Feldrin had reached the same conclusion. They needed more wind. “Pass the word for Edan, please, Chula. It’s time he started earning his keep.”
“Aye, Capt’n,” he said, flashing his pearly grin, then shouted for the boatswain. “Fetch Masta Edan, if you be pleased, Mista Gupa!”
“Aye, sir!” The new boatswain saluted and shouted below for Edan, and word passed through the ship. In moments the young man’s distinctive brush of red hair appeared from the fo’c’sle hatch, and he worked his way aft around the newly completed ballistae that crowded the deck.
“You called for me, Cynthia?”
“You’ll address her as Capt’n or Mistress, Masta Edan!” Chula snapped. He had been complaining to Cynthia about the boy’s attitude, and apparently had reached his limit of tolerance.
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