by Alex Lidell
Domenic tenses, his fingers pressing into the tabletop hard enough to turn the nailbeds white. I wonder whether he’s more unhappy over being kept ignorant or pleased about the rules finally catching up with my antics.
My own hands, concealed from view in my lap, tangle together.
“The dilemma,” Zolan continues, “lies with what to tell the crew and the Diante. The latter is the easier solution, I believe. The Diante invited a Captain Greysik, which all the official papers and correspondences confirm Her Highness to be. Once we make contact with the empire, I will temporarily revert the Helix to Ms. Greysik, who will in turn place me back in charge as soon as she steps off the ship. It isn’t ideal and perhaps stretches the spirit of both Felielle policy and the Diante invite, but there is no reason to air our laundry before the empire.”
Nods come from around the table. Zolan is right, the solution isn’t ideal but should hold water well enough. I let out a long, slow breath that catches short with his next words.
“Now, with respect to the Helix,” says Zolan.
I go still. Domenic leans forward.
Zolan’s dark eyes sweep over us. “Even setting aside the law, Ms. Greysik cannot command a man-of-war and harness the wind at the same time. That much we’ve seen. Just as we’ve seen her wind magic save this ship and every soul aboard her.” He turns to me and gives a small, respectful nod. “My original inclination to treat Ms. Greysik as a civilian passenger was a folly, for which I beg her forgiveness.”
My mouth dries. Words fail to come. Which is good, since Zolan isn’t done speaking.
“The question thus becomes simple: if Nile is neither a civilian passenger, nor the captain, where does she fit into the Helix’s hierarchy? The answer is likewise simple, for the tradition of the navy has answered it long ago. An officer’s place in the command cadre is based on rank. As a junior lieutenant, Ms. Greysik will fall just under Mr. Dana and will answer to him.”
Chapter 23
Nile
The table, the room, the world are all silent. I struggle to catch my breath, not trusting my voice to so much as utter acknowledgment of Zolan’s words. I’d been prepared to be confined to my berth for the remainder of the voyage or be relegated to an auxiliary status similar to that the ship’s surgeon enjoys. A narrowly skilled outsider. But what Zolan is laying out instead, a true place among the Felielle’s officers and crew, it changes everything. Gives me a chance to remain the sailor that I’ve trained my whole life to be. How exactly that will play out under Domenic is a separate matter altogether. I swallow.
“What will you tell the crew?” Kyra’s innocent words bounce along the tabletop.
“That due to Princess Greysik’s turn of health and need to prepare for her vital diplomatic duties, she has appointed me to captain the Helix in her stead. As for the Gift…” Zolan shakes his head. “The unfortunate reality is that sailors are a traditional and superstitious lot. The same men who will happily thank the Goddess for rogue winds will as likely piss themselves as mutiny should they learn that those winds were called by a Gifted serving at their side. Thus…” Zolan turns to me, his gaze flickering to Domenic’s hat and back. “Ms. Greysik, you will make no unauthorized disclosure of your Gift from this point onward. Understood?”
“Aye, sir.” I touch my hat.
“Furthermore”—Zolan’s attention swings between me and Domenic—“Mr. Dana, the ship’s command must have a full understanding of Ms. Greysik’s abilities to be able to direct her actions during battle. We will do well to have the winds synchronized with the ship’s maneuvers, not battling against them.” Zolan pauses and surveys the group one last time. “That is all, then. If there are no questions, everyone is dismissed.”
I scrape back my chair, rising with the others, my heart still a pounding storm. Zolan has given me a chance, maybe the first true chance in the Felielle navy—
“Sit down, Nile.” Domenic’s voice freezes me halfway to the door. “I’ve not dismissed you.”
A chill prickles my skin.
Zolan turns, opens his mouth to say something, then catches himself and strides from the room instead. A captain letting his officers sort out their own problems. Kyra, on the other hand, puts her hand on her hips, rooting herself into the deck until a quiet word from Catsper has her following the others out. With the door shut behind Quinn, who is the last to leave, I take a seat back at the table as Domenic instructed.
“You never told me that you revealed your Gift to Zolan.”
I straighten my spine and wait. Domenic and I aren’t friends. And that’s a good thing. This would be more difficult if we were.
“Well?” Domenic prods.
“My apologies, sir, what is the question?”
Domenic’s jaw tightens, a vein pulsing along its defined side while the silence stretches between us. A call announcing the Helix’s speed as nine knots echoes from the deck above. Finally, Domenic shakes his head, his hair swaying, the sparkle of hurt in his eyes flashing once before disappearing behind a naval mask. “Very well, if you do not trust me to partake in decisions such as whether to tell the Felielle navy about your magic, that is your prerogative.”
Yes, it is. I sit, still and patient. Just as Domenic ordered me to.
His large hands splay on the tabletop, stalling another heartbeat before he speaks. “In light of the new chain of command, I would like to make my expectations of you clear.”
Storms and hail. I keep my face still and keep my silence. Domenic has a right to this conversation, this tone, this superiority that’s clawing at my bones. He could have chosen to welcome me, to let me mourn my loss of command while helping me find footing in my new role. He chose this route instead.
And now I’m choosing not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. “Which part of duty do you believe I need a reminder of, sir?” I ask evenly.
“The part where you obey my orders,” snaps Domenic, his tightly buttoned facade finally cracking. “As I’d obeyed yours.”
I open my hands. “I’ve served under you before, sir.”
“Aye. And as I recall, the last time you were under my command, you hijacked the bloody ship to follow the gut feeling of a Gifted prisoner you were ordered to stay away from.”
“That was different.”
“And the war games a month ago, was that different too?” He shakes his head. “For someone raised in the navy, your notion of command structure leaves enough maneuvering room for a fleet to get by on either side.”
Right. We are back to that. Except Domenic now seems to have gotten it into his head to reform me. If I ever doubted my decision not to follow him to the Raptor, I do not anymore. I raise my chin, tilting my face up toward his. “I have one ongoing reminder of what happens to those who disobey you and am not anxious for another one. So, yes, I take your meaning, sir.”
Domenic sighs and rubs his hands over his face, the cold steel in his blue eyes faltering. “You don’t need to call me sir when we are alone,” he says quietly.
“Aye, sir.” I wait a heartbeat before looking toward the door. “Might I be dismissed to my duties?”
The following three days remind me of a dance, with neither partner being quite certain of the steps. Domenic alternately finds fault with everything I do—from how quickly my watch turns out for inspection to which midshipman I send up to the lookout platform—and tells me to stop worrying about the deck and focus on meditation and controlling my Gift. If the former is frustrating, the latter fills me with resentment. Domenic has a right to ask after my magic’s evolving capabilities and limitations, not to direct how and when I hone my body.
Unfortunately for Domenic, this isn’t the first time in my life where I’ve answered to a superior I little wish to serve under. The secret is to show no emotion at all, give no indication whether their request to pass the logbook affects you more than a demand to run three hours of gun drill.
“Aye, sir, sound the well to check for water levels.”
“No, sir, no problems with the crew to report.”
“Aye, sir, the day appears clear.”
“Let’s go.” Catsper kicks my boot as he walks past, a pair of practice blades in his hands. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about being used for target practice?”
“It will be the highlight of this cruise, Catsper,” I say dryly, though it may well be. The one advantage of my new rank is that I finally made time to spar, which I’ve missed more than I dared admit. Plus, I’m curious to see what the crew will make of me with a weapon.
“What of you, Kyra?” Catsper calls as we approach the raised poop deck at the ship’s stern. The hands part before him, their gazes morphing from intrigue to sordid amusement. After seeing Catsper take on two or three of the Helix’s marines simultaneously, the notion of him crossing swords with a princess must seem as absurd as the fact that said princess wears an officer’s uniform. “If you have finally decided to expand your defensive arsenal beyond talking an attacker to death, you might consider joining Nile and me.”
Standing at the poop’s rail, Kyra’s large, dark eyes narrow on the marine. She crosses her arms. “If there is a world where I’d allow you to beat me with a stick, it is yet to be discovered.”
“Pity,” says Catsper. “You make it sound delightful.”
I press my lips together. The mirth fades, though, when a wiry topman slithers down the ratlines to land just beside the poop deck ladder I’m set to climb.
The man, Joran, smiles to display his lack of two front teeth, his eyes taking in first the practice blades, then me. “Goddess bless me, entertainment with the afternoon grog?” he says quietly enough that only Catsper and I hear the remark. “Must be holiday routine. I’d have prefered whores myself, but this circus will do.”
I feign deafness, as I have daily since Zolan announced the change of command to the crew. There is little else for it. Any acknowledgment of having heard the remark would force an official report, which in turn will end with Joran at the grating. A whip would put an instant end to insolent comments but only fuel the sentiment. Plus, it is something I refuse to do—and, storms take me, the hands have somehow worked this out.
Centuries of tradition, I remind myself firmly. I’m up against centuries of tradition. Once I can earn the crew’s trust, this pettiness will iron itself out.
Joran snorts.
Catsper stops in his tracks, the flash of his green eyes making Joran retreat a step, his eyes widening with the realization of how deeply he’d miscalculated the marine’s attitude on lobbing insults at me.
“Keep going,” I mutter into Catsper’s ear. “It’s not worth it.”
The marine twitches his brow. With his loose pants, hair tied back into a bun, and a shirt sleeveless despite the chill, Catsper looks ready to take on the entire complement of the Helix. Now the marine twirls one of the blades in his hand, his attention skipping over the gathering crowd.
The remaining color drains from Joran’s face.
Don’t do it, Catsper, I think furiously at him.
He doesn’t. He does something much worse.
“Mr. Dana,” Catsper calls, his voice lazy but loud enough to breach the four paces of quarterdeck to where Domenic and Zolan are standing. “I’m feeling indisposed today, and Ms. Greysik is in need of a sparring partner. Since you are presently off watch, I was hoping you might accommodate us.”
Domenic freezes, staring at us like a deer caught unawares.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask Catsper quietly through clenched teeth. Domenic disliked crossing swords with me even when we were on speaking terms.
“Reminding several morons that you are an officer,” Catsper murmurs with equal quiet, though a great deal more mirth. “Plus, since you and Dana seem unable to converse like human beings, you might as well bash each other’s heads with sticks instead.”
Storms and hail. Catsper is the Spade version of a meddling hag, and I will strangle him. Just as soon as I dig myself out of the current mess.
“Mr. Dana.” Zolan’s voice barely reaches me. “Your time is your own, but might I suggest against using it to strike a lady.”
I don’t flinch, even though my heart stutters, Zolan’s words stinging more than Joran's insults. Zolan might call me an officer, but he has not changed his mind about a woman’s place in battle. If Domenic agrees, the crew’s opinion will be rooted that much deeper.
Turning my back to the quarterdeck, I stretch my arm across my chest and try to imagine something pleasant and impossible—like how good it might feel to actually land a blow on Catsper.
“You are quite correct, sir,” Domenic’s voice calls behind me.
I’m deaf. Deaf. Deaf. Deaf.
“But I do believe in this case, the invite was to practice with Ms. Greysik the second lieutenant, not Ms. Greysik the royal lady.” I turn in time to see Domenic remove his coat and hand his hat to one of the middies. An act of charity to shield my dignity. I should be grateful, but I hate him for it. Three steps have Domenic at the ladder, climbing up to the poop. “Plus,” he calls to Zolan over his shoulder, “I would not wish to get on Catsper’s bad side by refusing the offer.”
My teeth grind.
Catsper tosses a practice sword into my hands, throwing a second to Domenic. I let my fingers brush the polished wood, its cool, slick feel soothing to my quickening pulse. Raised in Ashing with an eye on the admiralty, I’ve studied swordsmanship since early childhood—an officer’s weapon to contrast the common seaman’s cutlass. Domenic, who’d risen to officer rank from the lower decks, has little such training. Technically speaking, I’m the stronger swordsman. Practically speaking, Domenic is twice my size and strength.
And then there is the crew. If my appearance with blades drew grins and sneers, the sight of two senior officers squaring off against each other like ragged hyenas is quickly bringing the deck work to a halt.
“Let’s get on with it,” Domenic murmurs, settling his weight onto his back leg and blading his body into a fighting stance. His face is dark, as if he’d been forced into this somehow.
I raise a brow and swing my blade in a circle, letting myself settle into a world of pure physicality. Voices and glares fade away to make room for the feel of my weight shifting to the balls of my feet, the rhythm of the deck swaying beneath me, the way the sun reflects off the green-blue waves, occasionally flashing into my eyes.
“Start,” Catsper commands.
I step forward. Slow and careful. Circling Domenic, forcing him to follow my movements. Hoarding the boat’s rhythm for myself.
Domenic is larger and slower, his attention still in part on the deck around him.
That’s a mistake, and I tell him so with a quick lunge, the tip of my blade thrusting just below his ribs. A fleshy, satisfying recoil echoes back to my wrist.
Domenic winces in surprise. And pain.
I step back. Circle. Plan my next assault. Closing the distance quickly is a solid approach, a way to turn Domenic’s longer reach from advantage to liability.
Eyes locked on Domenic’s hips and shoulders, I let the deck bring me down and up, using the surge to close in and swing my blade at his head.
This time, Domenic parries. The impact of our blades ripples up my arm, through my side. Storms, he is strong. Instead of standing my ground, I let the force help me twist, turning my back to Domenic for a fraction of a second before my elbow slams into his solar plexus.
The crew chuckles.
I slide away, circling, waiting for Domenic’s answering blow.
Nothing. Just a fighting stance tracking my movements, a face blank of emotion despite the hint of a flush rising on Domenic’s cheeks.
My next attack is a cut along his side, deliberately slow. Easy to parry.
He does, dipping the hilt of his practice blade so my weapon strikes wood instead of rib. A decent block. But nothing more. No attack, no finesse, no strategy. This isn’t a fight, it’s a child’s game. A streak of ho
t anger rushes down the column of my spine. “Did you come up here to spar or look pretty?” I demand, pushing closer until I can hook my sword arm around his. Our bodies press together, the rise and fall of Domenic’s chest pushing against mine.
“I came up here out of respect for your feelings after Zolan’s opinion of a woman’s place.” Domenic’s words are a low hiss. “Whose brilliant idea was it to call me out? Yours or Catsper’s?”
The coal-hot fury in my spine chills to ice.
“Mine,” I say firmly. As if I’d ever lay blame on Catsper. Throwing friends to the wolves is Domenic’s habit, not mine. “If you think crossing blades is a kindness you are granting me, you’ll find the truth unpleasant.” With that, I hook my heel behind Domenic’s leg and dump him unceremoniously onto the deck.
Domenic’s arm shoots out to brace himself against the fall, and Catsper curses him for it even before the pain makes Domenic grimace.
“Should have taken that fall across the back,” I pant, kicking that poorly placed hand right out from under him, letting the crew chuckle. “Pay attention.”
Color rises to Domenic’s face, and the next several strikes fall with more force than necessary. I turn Domenic’s overcommitments into invitations to rap the wood smartly against his wrist, his thigh, his neck. My next attack has me dropping low to bring my blade almost vertically up to Domenic's jaw. A stupid showmanship move that would have earned me severe reprisal from Catsper, but leaves Domenic befuddled.
I pull the blow, putting enough theatrics behind it to ensure that watching hands know I did so. As if I’m so much better than Domenic that I must contain myself. As if the first officer of the Helix is too weak to bear the strike of a practice blade.
“Nile.” A low warning growl from Catsper. “Dana appears to be blind this afternoon, but I don’t suffer the same ailment.”
“Dana, is that who I’m training with?” My voice is just loud enough for the crew to hear without sounding like I intend for the words to carry. “I thought I was fighting the mizzenmast. Certainly he’s no more hostile than a piece of wood.”