Scimitar's Heir

by Chris A. Jackson

  “But she’s not my captain, and she’s not my mistress, either, Chula,” Edan said with a shrug.

  “As long as you on dis ship, she’s—”

  “It’s all right, Chula. Let it be.” Cynthia waved a hand in dismissal, as if the point were moot—which, as far as she was concerned, it was. “I don’t expect Edan to address me with respect. I haven’t earned his respect, at least not lately.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I don’t care what you meant either, Edan. I called you up because there’s work to be done; it’s time for you to start helping us. The winds have slacked and we’re not making our best speed.” She gestured to the flagging sails. “We need to fill the sails. The same direction, just a bit more strength. It shouldn’t be much of a strain, but I thought we’d take shifts; two hours each to start, then maybe more when you get used to it.”

  “How long do we have to do this?” he asked, eying the sails. Cynthia could feel his questing touch on the wind, and almost smiled.

  “Until we reach Akrotia, which will be days, at least, maybe even weeks. We have no way to know until the scouts find the scent of my son.”

  “Weeks?” he scoffed. “How can we keep the winds up for weeks? We’ll get exhausted, even taking shifts.”

  “Yes, we will, so we’ll make what time we can while conditions are still good. Eventually the sea will become choked with weed, which will slow us further. At that point, I’ll clear the weeds while you provide the wind, which will be even more exhausting.” At his incredulous look, she gave him a thin, grim smile. “I never said helping us would be easy, Edan.”

  Chula chuckled in a low, amused tone, and said, “You gonna be a pretty busy boy now, Edan.”

  Cynthia saw Edan bristle as the first mate showed him the same lack of respect the young man had shown her. She found it troubling, how Edan expected others to automatically show him respect now that he had attained the powers of a pyromage. Well, he would have to learn that respect was earned by deeds, not by power.

  “That’s enough, Chula,” she warned, though her tone was mild. The first mate strode off down the deck, chuckling quietly. She turned back to Edan. “I know you can do this. It’s like your fire; practice makes perfect.”

  “Show me how much wind you need,” Edan said, squaring his thin shoulders in defiance. She knew his pride would make him push himself; in fact, she was counting on it.

  ≈

  “Na! Na!” Sam shouted, jerking the slack sheet from the cannibal’s hand and lashing it fast. She plucked another line from the row of secured sheets and halyards and thrust it into the man’s grip. “Tada! Noosh! Noosh! Pull, you pointy-toothed pollock!” She grabbed the line and pulled, pointing to where the head of the jib sail twitched on the First Venture’s forestay.

  “Ah!” He grinned at her and pulled. He rattled off a line of gibberish to his mates and three of them grasped the line and hauled away. The jib rose and they snugged it tight, then two others pulled on the line attached to the sail’s clew and sheeted it home. They even trimmed it sharply. They knew how to trim the sails, how to steer the ship, but that was a far cry from knowing what to do when. They were not competent sailors, not by a far shot, but they were learning.

  “Jib!” she shouted, pointing at the sail. They nodded and repeated the word, not mangling the pronunciation too badly. She moved to the line they had just secured and grasped it. “Halyard!” Then she pointed to the sail again and grasped the line at the same time. “Jib halyard!”

  Light dawned in the eyes of a few of her crew, but most just looked at her like she was an idiot. “You’re the idiots,” she mumbled in frustration. Finally, one large fellow she knew as Uag nodded and grinned, miming her perfectly, pointing first to the sail and saying, “Jib!” then to the line and repeating, “Halyard!”

  “Epa! Epa!” she cried, clapping him on the shoulder. “Epa, Uag! Jib halyard!”

  He grinned and repeated the phrase, then rattled off a stream of his own language. She smiled when she saw the light of understanding in the eyes of the rest of the crew. Uag had understood what she wanted and translated her orders to his fellows; an invaluable achievement. Then, to her astonishment, he moved to the row of cleated lines and picked out another. He tugged it and looked up to follow where it led, then grinned again.

  “Halyard!” he cried, looking to her for confirmation.

  “Epa! Ki! Halyard!” she said, grinning back. “Forestaysail halyard.”

  He stumbled at that, unable to pronounce the complicated word, but she broke it down by pointing forward, grabbing the forestay, then patting the sail furled on the forestaysail boom. In an instant, he understood, repeated the phrase, and instructed the others.

  “Fan-bloody-tastic!” she said, earning a few confused looks. She waved off their questions, and decided she had one more word to teach them this morning. She walked up to Uag and tapped him on the chest and said, “Bosun!” Then she followed it with two words of their own language that she had learned. “Pica” meant small, and “keffa” meant chief, which was a good definition of a boatswain’s job.

  They all cheered and pounded Uag on the back, grinning and crying out their unintelligible congratulations, alternatively calling him “bosun” and “pica keffa.” Sam sighed and took a step back, letting them figure it out for themselves.

  She looked around and checked their progress. It had taken her a full day to get everything sorted out on Middle Cay, but now they were approaching Fire Isle and had perhaps twelve hours of sailing to go before they reached the tribe’s home island. Manta sailed easily in First Venture’s lee under only a single jib and a reefed main. Cutthroat, she knew, was clawing her way to windward with only a skeleton crew, and would meet them as scheduled tomorrow night in the lee of Carbuncle Shoal, within easy striking distance of Plume Isle.

  Her plan was coming together, her crew was learning, and she was in command. She had even found herself a boatswain. For now, she was content.

  Chapter 6

  Allies and Enemies

  Cutter darted out of the blue distance and snapped to a halt before the school’s vanguard, signing excitedly, *I have found Akrotia! Come see!*

  Without waiting to see if anyone followed, he flipped his tail and streaked away in a swirl of bubbles. Sunlight shifed through the thick rafts of floating weed rising and falling on the lazy swells, lending a chaotic pattern of bright and dark to the water. He flipped to a stop in the middle of a thick shaft of light and pointed up.

  *You can see it from here!* He shot toward the surface and through it, arcing high and crashing back down in a cascade of bubbles. He flipped in a circle and pointed, signing, *That way, only about a thousand tail flips distant!*

  In a more benign situation, Kelpie would have found his antics humorous; not now. The priestess lagged behind as the rest of the mer schooled around Cutter. Eelback immediately leapt up through the hole in the weeds. His eyes were wide when he splashed back down, and he swam in tight circles, his movements jerky with excitement. He urged the others to leap high for a better look and, one by one, they complied. When they came down, some looked excited, others anxious. Their goal was no longer an abstract legend. It was real, and it was in sight. Eelback made one final leap, then smiled broadly and slapped the scout on the shoulder.

  *Well done, Cutter! You have found our goal, but you are mistaken. It is not only one thousand tail flips distant, but closer to three thousand!*

  *Three thousand?* Cutter signed, his eyes widening until Kelpie thought they might pop out. *But…that would make Akrotia as large as an island!*

  *Larger than some, but smaller than most, my friend,* Eelback signed. He motioned for the school to reform, then noticed Kelpie a short distance away. He swam quickly to her and waved toward the surface. *You do not go to see our goal, Kelpie? Here! I will hold the
seamage’s finling while you see Akrotia.* He held out his hands to her. When she didn’t move, he knitted his eye ridges in consternation.

  *I will see it soon enough, Eelback,* Kelpie signed somewhat impatiently, making no move to hand over the child. *And, as I told you before, Seamage Flaxal’s child is not a finling. He is finally sleeping, and I am loath to disturb his rest.* She turned away from Eelback and sought her position in the middle of the school, next to Tailwalker. The trident holder’s son had been left alone while the others had sought to see Akrotia, but he hadn’t tried to escape; he knew that, in his weakened and bound condition, the predators of the ocean would soon have him. Still, he had the strength to turn away from Kelpie as she approached.

  Despair flooded her heart at Tailwalker’s rejection, and she realized how she must seem to him: an accomplice to Eelback’s plan, unwilling perhaps, but that did not matter. He had watched her use Odea’s gifts to steal this child from the very body of their friend, Seamage Cynthia Flaxal. Never before had she used her powers to do ill. With that single act she had betrayed the two people she loved above all others. And now they were within sight of Akrotia, that much closer to culminating Eelback’s plan for Cynthia Flaxal’s child.

  Eelback’s plan…

  Kelpie considered what she knew of it. Eelback had spoken true when he said that Cynthia Flaxal would betray them: the seamage had tried to deny their right to declare war by order of The Voice, and had threatened the school, so Kelpie had helped to subdue her. By rights, she was as guilty as he. But now she could see how Eelback had duped her, duped the entire school. She recalled the rumors, the aspersions spread to discredit the seamage and draw support for war against the landwalkers. Eelback’s manipulations had tipped the school’s opinion in favor of war; therefore, The Voice sent them to war. Kelpie fluttered her gills in distress at the implication. How could the school be governed if The Voice could be manipulated so easily by those with personal agendas? This was not about war with the landwalkers at all, but a ploy by Eelback to capture Cynthia Flaxal’s child. Thousands of landwalkers and hundreds of mer had died for the sake of Eelback’s plan to make Akrotia live again. She thrashed her tail angrily as it became clear to her. Cynthia had not intentionally betrayed them; her act of betrayal had come from ignorance of the true nature of the mer.

  And from loving us, Kelpie thought, her eyes inexorably drawn to Tailwalker, whom she had loved for many seasons. Did the seamage’s betrothal to Tailwalker influence me to help Eelback? she wondered, hoping fervently that it hadn’t. Tailwalker glanced over, and she saw hate in his eyes, felt it like a knife in her gut. No doubt Cynthia Flaxal’s heart was also filled with hate for the mer…and for Kelpie. And I deserve their hatred, she thought, with one more cold realization. And when she comes for her child, I will pay. We will all pay…

  Kelpie looked to where Eelback swam, his colors shifting with excitement. As he moved beneath the rafts of weed, he seemed to wink in and out as the light illuminated his form, then the darkness concealed it. Light and dark, existence and oblivion, truth and lies…

  Why, she wondered, did Eelback allow Cynthia Flaxal to live? It does not make sense. But Eelback is not a fool. Everything he does has a purpose, and I am going to find out what that purpose is.

  ≈

  “I will not sail this armada straight into what could very well be a trap, without more information!” Admiral Joslan declared, punctuating the statement with a fist to the tabletop that rattled the silver blackbrew service and bone-porcelain cups. “It is unconscionable!”

  Gods of Light damn all sorcerers to the Nine Hells! he raged silently. He knew he should be taking action, facing this seamage head on and forcing her to submit to the emperor’s will, but… He controlled a shiver at the thought of facing a power that could instantly annihilate a ship such as Clairissa. Mer, he could deal with. A sword in the gut was an easy answer to their attacks. But magic…he had never faced a foe like this before, and it unnerved him. It didn’t help that the emperor’s master of security was pushing him to make a move before he was ready. He watched Upton open his mouth to speak again, and thought, And damn all spies with them.

  “But to sit here at anchor and do nothing, sir,” Upton said. “Is that not equally unconscionable?” The spymaster’s tone was mild, but his eyes flicked to one and then another of the flag officers seated at the table.

  Joslan knew what the spymaster was doing; he’d seen it many times before. Plotting, calculating, appraising my captains’ alliances. Assessing my flaws to report to the emperor.

  “We are not doing nothing, Master Upton!” he insisted, rattling the dishes again with his vehemence. “We are assessing the situation. Rumors of the seamage abound, but we must discern which are true and which are fabrications or exaggerations. Any information we can glean here may save lives in the end. It seems to me that your job is to root out that information, not to tell me how to deploy my armada!”

  “My aides are doing just that,” Upton replied calmly, “but information about the seamage’s stronghold would also save lives. Do you not agree, Admiral?”

  “Of course, but since I am no sorcerer and have no scrying mirror at my disposal, we are relegated to gleaning what information we can from the sources we have at our disposal. Do you not agree, Master Upton?”

  “Of course, Admiral,” the man acceded with a nod, “but are we employing all the means at the emperor’s disposal?”

  Joslan clenched his jaw at the subtle threat; if he continued to stall, what the spymaster saw as dereliction of duty would eventually reach the emperor’s ears. Fortunately, his clenched jaw kept him from uttering an ugly remark that could very well have ended his career.

  “Sir,” interrupted Commodore Henkle, looking at the admiral. “May I offer a suggestion that might accommodate everyone?”

  “By all means,” Joslan agreed, relieved to pass the attention to someone else for a moment while he reined in his temper. “As long as it does not involve putting this armada at undue risk.”

  “Not the armada, sir,” Henkle assured him. “But if we sent a single fast ship to reconnoiter Plume Isle, it might provide us with valuable information. She could stay well out to sea for safety’s sake, perhaps send in a longboat to approach the seamage’s keep under a flag of truce.”

  “A flag of truce?” Captain Donnely snapped. “After what that witch did to the Clairissa, you want to surrender?”

  “Captain!” the admiral snapped, instantly silencing the man. “Do not forget that you are a junior officer here. What the commodore is suggesting is not surrender, but a parley—or the semblance of it—in an attempt to assess the situation. Am I right?”

  “Quite right, Admiral,” Henkle said, glaring at Donnely.

  The admiral leaned back in his chair and hitched his thumbs into his belt, scowling for effect. The room remained silent; even Upton held his tongue.

  “It would have to be one of the drakes, I suppose, though I hesitate to send the least formidable of my ships off alone.”

  “If I may, Admiral,” said Upton. “Sending a larger ship to protect the drake may be riskier than sending the drake alone. The Clairissa was destroyed, after all, coming to the aid of the Fire Drake. If the commander of the drake deems it unsafe, he can run without a larger escort to slow him down.”

  “I agree with that logic, Admiral, sir,” Henkle said. Others around the table also nodded.

  “I understand the logic, Commodore, that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Joslan snapped, his scowl renewed. “The Iron Drake’s got new copper, and she’s a swift one. What do you say, Captain Pendergast?”

  “It would be my honor, sir!” the young captain replied, straightening to full attention in his seat.

  Joslan’s eyes stabbed at Upton. “Would that satisfy His Majesty’s Minister of Security?”

  “It woul
d,” Upton agreed.

  Joslan thought he detected a faint smile on the man’s face, and perhaps a quick glance to Henkle. Was the spymaster feeding his commodore suggestions? He’d have to watch for that. But it had worked out well. Should Pendergast succeed with his task, the admiral could take credit as leader of the armada. But, Spymaster, he thought, should the ship be lost, you are now on record as having tendered the suggestion that it go without escort. In any case, the action provided a welcome delay for having to decide how and when to face the seamage Cynthia Flaxal.

  ≈

  It began as a subtle darkness beyond the shafts of light below the weeds, gradually deepening and spreading until all before them was shrouded in perpetual twilight. Eelback’s heart hammered in his chest as the shadow deepened. Akrotia—how many seasons he had longed for this day, planned for this day? And it had all gone so perfectly. It was a new beginning for the mer…and the beginning of the end of the landwalkers’ arrogant exploitation of the seas.

  The school fell out of formation around him as the mer tried to better see the city. They hung back, though; none ventured ahead of Eelback, which pleased him. He felt the currents stir as they signed wildly amongst themselves. He shared their excitement, but had no desire to jabber about it. He wanted to savor the moment. He flipped his gills slowly in contentment and watched the city resolve before him as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Finally he turned back to his followers.

  *Welcome to Akrotia,* he signed to his school, and waved his arms in an expansive gesture. *This will be our new home, my friends. This will be the salvation of the mer!*

  *It looks dead,* Redtail signed hesitantly.

  *It is not dead!* Eelback signed, his fins flaring in sudden anger. Instantly he clamped them down, forced his colors to calm, mortified at his own outburst. His hold on these few mer, his most loyal, was as ephemeral as plankton floating in the currents. One mistake, one outburst, and he could lose them, lose Akrotia. Eelback would never let that happen. *It is just sleeping, my friend…waiting for us to awaken it.*