by Alex Lidell
Questions. Now that the princess had agreed to take her, question after question filled Kyra’s mind. The merchant ship Kyra had taken from Milan to Biron had been small and disordered, nothing like the large naval vessels run by strict rules and barbaric traditions. Would she be required to wear a uniform? Pee where men could see? Would the men… Could the seamen strike her if she made a mistake?
“No,” Nile told her in iron certainty an hour later, when Kyra ran into her and Bear outside the inn. Or, more accurately, when Bear found Kyra and, in his enthusiasm, toppled her into a puddle.
The princess was different than she’d been the previous night, her eyes slightly swollen and her emotion salty and jagged. “No on all counts,” Nile said, her face stoic and tone considerate. “Only the officers wear a uniform. The seamen are issued clothes but may add to their kit as they wish, as may you. You will berth in a partition off my cabin and may use a private head there. As for laying hands on you, no. You are a civilian and will not be subject to discipline.”
“And outside discipline?” Kyra’s voice trips “Will…”
Nile stepped in front of her, cutting off her path. The princess was two years younger than Kyra, but half a head taller and strong as a man. The rumbling storm of emotion Kyra tasted from her a moment earlier disappeared behind a wall of granite certainty. “No one will lay a hand on you, Kyra,” Nile said, finding her eyes. “I will not promise you a comfortable voyage, or one safe from enemy fire. But you have my word that no man on that ship will touch you.”
Kyra blinked. Not at the words—she’d heard such before—but at the pledge that formed their foundation. The princess was making a promise, not just for Kyra’s sake, but for her own. As if she needed to protect, thrived on it. The navy, its purpose, Nile’s purpose—they were all intertwined inside her. All vital and perhaps as deep as her soul.
“Kyra?” Nile’s voice became wary. “Are you head rummaging?”
“No,” Kyra answered quickly, then winced. “I… Not rummaging, just speculating. I do that sometimes. Often.”
Nile’s brow rose. “And where does this speculation lead you?”
“Typically…into trouble.”
A small chuckle. Then Nile’s face changed again, back to hiding that salty, jagged glass, back to pretending those edges weren’t slicing her to ribbons.
Despite the early morning hour, the streets around them buzzed with a sea town’s morning chores, the men and women bundled against the foul weather. Fishing boats shoved away from shore, market tents rose; several tipsy seamen enjoying their last dregs of shore leave stumbled and sang as they pulled brightly dressed whores along.
And I’ve got meself my woman,
And I’ve got meself my ship,
And I’ve got meself—
“A sailor has a wife in every port,” Nile told Kyra, nodding toward the seamen. “At least that’s how the saying goes.”
“Begging pardon, Your Highness.” A boy of ten wriggled his way through the crowd, stopping before Nile to hold out an envelope. “A message for you, ma’am.”
Kyra had never been important enough to have messengers combing the streets to deliver news into her hand, but Nile seemed impervious and dismissed the boy efficiently with a penny and a word of thanks. The seal cracked smoothly under the princess’s thumb, the paper shaking open obediently.
Nile’s jaw tightened.
“What is it?” Kyra asked.
“The Helix is docked in a post a day’s journey south of here, and my first officer, Mr. Zolan, has apparently decided to head out there early this morning—incidentally before I might summon him to discuss the coming commission. He assures me that the ship will be prepared for my arrival in two weeks and requests that the Helix’s second officer, Lieutenant Domenic Dana, attend him presently to assist provisioning.”
Dana. The large, broad-shouldered man who drank in Nile’s every move when he thought she wasn’t looking. When the princess said Dana’s name… To the world, Catsper and Nile might look similar in their matter-of-fact words, but to Kyra’s empathic sense, the two were opposites. Whereas the marine tamped down his emotions so deep that even he couldn’t touch them, Nile’s feelings assaulted her with each breath. Not that anyone would know from speaking to the princess. “Do you practice saying things in a matter-of-fact way?” Kyra asked. “As if all pieces of information carry the same neutral weight?”
It was Nile’s turn to blink. “Of course. A ship’s crew takes its steadiness from their officers. On the quarterdeck, you must always be confident in your words, even if you feel anything but.”
“Captain Greysik?” A boy in a midshipman’s uniform rapidly changed course, setting it for Nile. “I’ve a message for you, ma’am.”
The princess took possession of her second folded sheet of the morning just as another messenger appeared with two more.
Kyra touched Nile’s wrist. If she was to be the younger woman’s steward, she had a right to take care of her charge. “Have you eaten?”
The princess gave a dismissive shrug, already breaking the first of the seals. “This confirms it,” she said, her eyes scanning the few lines of text. Accepting the midshipman’s offer of ink and pen, the princess dashed a quick response, sealing it with a signet ring before sending the boy away. “We are Domenic-free for two weeks,” she said with an attempt at a smile.
Reaching over, Kyra neatly plucked the remaining message from Nile’s hands. “You shall read the rest over breakfast. If the past hour is any indication, the notes will continue coming for those weeks. Should you die of starvation, I will have no transport home.”
Chapter 13
Nile
Two weeks. Two absurdly busy weeks. After sitting with their thumbs up their rears for the past six months, the Felielle Admiralty and crown suddenly have myriad vital tasks to be attended to. I’m fitted for a new uniform, one with a captain’s epaulettes and a decorative trim worthy of making a foreign appearance. A Diante language tutor appears at my doorstep, his assistant pouring a stack of books in Kyra’s arms. A packet marked “Diante Sea Charts” is found to somehow contain Eflian land maps at the same time as an exasperated letter from Zolan states that he’s discovered rot in drinking water casks and is having everything removed and inspected. My name is misspelled in the Lyron League’s official letter to the Diante. The letter is corrected to, this time, misspell the name of the Diante admiral. When, the day before setting sail, I learn that my Diante-Lyron translator has slipped from a roof he’s been thatching and broken both his legs, I finally explode with a string of curses that has several inn patrons stepping into the corridor in morbid curiosity.
“Shall I tell the translator to come along anyway, then?” Lord Vikon inquires when I stop for breath.
“No. I can manage in Diante well enough, and Admiral Addus is fluent in Lyron, thank the storm.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Is there anything else in that stack of papers you are holding, Lord Vikon?”
The lord wisely stuffs the papers back into his bag. “No, ma’am. Just one quick question. Given my birth and our shared family ties, I thought perhaps I might do better berthing in the officers’ instead of the midshipmen’s—”
“Since what bloody storm are you coming along?”
Vikon draws himself up to his full height. “It was arranged yesterday. An invitation from Prince Tamiath himself.”
Murder flashes through me, and I turn on my heel so quickly that Vikon jumps, dropping his papers. The door of my suite is still echoing when I grab Tam’s shirt collar and describe my specific plan for dismembering him with a dull knife.
“I had no choice.” Tam holds up his hands while Aaron, bastard that he is, grins. Tam winces. “It was all I could do to keep Vikon’s father from making good on his threat against Quinn. Darius is neither powerless nor the imbecile he looks to be.”
I let go, rubbing my temples as I drop into an empty chair.
“I know you hate hearing it, but a large par
t of the reason the Felielle navy is entertaining your position is because you are royalty.” Tam’s voice is apologetic but so damn reasonable that I want to yell at him all over again. “If my young wife is to enjoy the untold privileges of the Felielle royal name, then Lord Darius feels his son should as well. He wasn’t demanding young Vikon be put in charge of any vital ship’s function. He knows the boy will never be an officer in anything but name, but that name is vitally important. And unfortunately, a certain common-born ex-Tirik under your command recently trampled over said name in muddy boots.”
“Good fortune with all that,” Aaron puts in before letting his grin fade and striding over to me. “Fair winds tomorrow, Nile,” he whispers, pulling me to my feet. Our forearms clasp, foreheads touching together. “Come back safe, little brother.”
“Last chance to leave that behind.” Catsper motions to Kyra as she, Catsper, Quinn, Vikon, the two dogs, and I board the cutter that is to row us out to the Helix. The marine is the last to hop into the waiting boat, his gaze busy surveying the shadows for untold threats and lurking Tirik warriors.
Kyra snorts.
Ignoring them both, I slide over to make space for Bear and Rum. The latter, usually prone to sinking teeth into flesh for personal amusement, sprawls unabashedly at Kyra’s feet. As if sensing my gaze, Rum lifts his head and growls.
“Get in line,” I tell him. There is a whole ship out there that likely shares the dog’s sentiment, from the first officer forced out of his own ship, to the Felielle seamen who think me a decoration. As for Domenic… My stomach clenches, my hand tightening on the side of the boat. “Take us about the ship,” I tell the coxen. “I’d like to take a look at her before coming aboard.”
Unlike my night journey to the Aurora nearly a year ago, today the sun is out. The fresh wind ruffles my hair, sneaking into my collar and filling my nose with the scent of salt and brine. Domenic’s scent. Pushing that thought aside, I lean my chest against the breeze, offering my soul to the wind that makes my magic tingle with life and energy.
Before us, the Helix stands majestically on the calm seas, each sail and rope ferruled perfectly to regulation. Smaller than the three ships of Admiral Brice’s squadron, which will be escorting us to the Diante territory, the Helix is the newest of the group. There is even a new coat of paint on her hull, which appears to have been recently scraped to clear it of minor debris and seaweed.
Vikon whistles, puffing out his chest like a rooster. His new uniform is well cut, the golden buttons gleaming in the sun. “A beauty, isn’t she? Makes you long to run your hands all over her.”
“I’m unsure who you speak of,” says Kyra, “But might I propose that not all thoughts entering a young man’s head need be shared in mixed company?”
Catsper snorts, and Vikon turns a delightful shade of burgundy.
“Mr. Vikon was referring to the Helix,” I tell Kyra, pressing my lips together with some effort. “Ships are considered female.”
Vikon clears his throat. “I’d say it should be smooth sailing so long as you stay out of Mr. Zolan’s way, cousin,” he tells me.
I grab Catsper’s wrist before he can bury a fist in Vikon’s nose, and glower at the middie, who opens his palm in a what did I say? inquiry that I don’t bother addressing.
The boat pulls up to the Helix, and I rise, balancing my foot atop the seat until the hulls merge. The sea between boat and frigate boils, its whooshing song a death trap and a welcome. I draw breath, time my jump, and latch easily on to the grips. My heart starts to pound in earnest as I climb up to the deck.
The bosun’s pipe starts the Felielle kingdom anthem the instant my hat clears the rail, and Zolan’s side party snaps to attention. I doff my hat until the music finishes, and Zolan strides to me, each step perfect and confident. In the sun, his tanned skin seems to sparkle and his dark eyes are hard as obsidian stone. Behind him, the Felielle seamen watch me warily. Domenic stands at rigid attention that would do a Spade proud, his eyes piercing a spot just over my head. His clean-shaven skin underscores the square cut of his jaw. The strong arms that will no longer wrap around me press rigidly against his sides. My chest clenches, and I force my eyes away.
“Welcome aboard, ma’am.” Zolan’s voice carries without seeming to have gotten louder. “Allow me to introduce the ship’s officers and young gentlemen. This is Mr. Lorel, the sailing master.” Zolan invites a man of ample girth forward to shake my hand.
Lorel gives me a small, polite bow, his handshake having something in common with a dead fish.
“Mr. Phal, the fourth in command.”
Tall and reedy, the mustached lieutenant squeezes the bones of my hand together as he smiles into my face.
My hand is still screaming when Domenic approaches next, his face as even as the deepest sea. The familiar grip of his calloused hand sends lightning I shouldn’t feel through my skin. “Mr. Dana. A pleasure to see you again.” My voice is husky, and I turn quickly away to acknowledge the middies Zolan sends my way next.
I wonder what emotions Kyra senses just now and what she makes of the mess.
The introductions taken care of, I pull my orders from the inside pocket of my coat and read them aloud to take official charge of the frigate. At fifty-four guns, the Helix is by far larger than any ship I’d imagined commanding for years, and she looks as pristine on the inside as she did from the boat. The planks are sanded clean and dry, the ropes are coiled, the lookouts have their eyes trained on the sea despite the curiosities on deck.
I put my hands behind my back and mentally run through the list of pre-sail tasks. Check watch schedules, gun and sail drills, double-check the food stores before departing, especially the lemon juice we add to the seamen’s grog to keep their teeth from rotting. Start—
“If it would be convenient, ma’am,” Zolan says, interrupting my thoughts, “I’d like your approval for my drill schedule and your signature on the provisioning ledger. In my final inspection, I found us short three barrels of salt pork and have requested those be delivered into the hold. I’ve also taken the liberty of purchasing additional powder for the ship’s guns to use during exercise. Unless you prefer an alternate schedule, I’d like to exercise the crews with live powder every other day, with dry runs and sail drill in between.”
Right. Score: Zolan one, me zero. Well, at least I know now Zolan intends to balance my official captain’s status against his unofficial directive to keep the ship under his reign—by running the ship so efficiently as to make me irrelevant. From what I’ve seen, the man is competent enough to pull it off. Checking my pride, I bow to the older man. “Of course, please carry on, Mr. Zolan and…thank you, sir.”
Zolan turns away without acknowledging my words. “Mr. Dana, a moment of your time, sir,” he calls, his voice cracking like a whip and sending the gawking crew scurrying about their business. “Front and center, if you please.”
My neck tightens, though I make certain to keep my face neutral. I can count on one hand the number of times a commander called me to attention in the middle of a working quarterdeck, and the humiliation of each is still branded in my memory.
Domenic strides up, attentive but unsurprised. Not his first reprimand, then, and it’s been only two weeks. What in the bloody hell has been going on? Domenic’s back is straight as he finds his spot, his uniform pristine as always, with the neck buttoned all the way to the top. Only the small tap of two fingers against his thigh gives Domenic’s unease away. And that, only to me. “Sir?”
“What is the status of our powder, Mr. Dana?” Zolan asks. Of an age with Tam and slightly shorter than Domenic, Zolan commands the deck without trying.
“Loaded and stored, sir.” Domenic raises his chin. “I checked the bills of lading and accounted for both the allotted rations and the extra purchases.”
“I am glad to hear that the Helix’s stores are in order.” Zolan puts his hands behind his back. “However, when I want an accounting of goods, I will inquire of the purser, wh
ose job that is. What I want to know from my second lieutenant is whether the powder in my guns has been checked and whether our Goddess-blessed ship is battle worthy.”
A brush of red touches Domenic’s face. He’s too disciplined to move, but I catch the miniscule twitch of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw that’s fighting to stay raised. To be called out before the crew, before me… It’s what Rima used to do. And I think Domenic would rather take lashes than endure that again.
Striding forward, I place my own hands in the small of my back and speak lightly despite my racing pulse. “You will forgive the misunderstanding, Commander Zolan, but on Mr. Dana’s previous assignments, there was either no purser or not one to be trusted. The lieutenant is thus accustomed to reporting on all details of ship’s operations.”
Zolan turns. Looks down at me from his greater height. Bows just enough to answer regulation. “Of course, ma’am,” he says calmly. “But as Lieutenant Dana is no longer on those ships, I would appreciate it if he performed the duties of the Helix’s second lieutenant—unless, of course, you have other chores for him to attend to?”
Domenic’s face reddens further.
The heartbeat of ensuing silence, interrupted only by Vikon’s self-satisfied snort, is a well-aimed slap. As the ship’s first officer, Zolan has full authority to make Domenic’s life hell—and I can do nothing about it without stooping to the nepotistic dishonor Captain Rima has turned into an art form.
I force a dismissive smile to my lips. “Not at all, Mr. Zolan,” I say, and do the one thing I can to smother the fire—remove myself from it. Taking up a spyglass, I walk to the opposite rail and turn my attention to the ocean and the three ships of Admiral Brice’s squadron that stand at anchor beside us.