Richard raised his glass to her and drank. Except when he’d hinted at that, one or two of the Council had asked what exactly he planned to do with the people of other lands, assuming their magic proved inferior to technology and they were defeated. Bleakhaveners, despite their physical dissimilarities, could interbreed with Dagrans, meaning a conquered population could be slowly absorbed and integrated into the greater whole. But Iternans weren’t fertile with anyone except other Iternans, so was he advocating genocide when it came to them?
Richard would never have gone so far—he’d had mass exile in mind instead—but by then he knew it was a lost cause. Besides, the reason Robert Demeresna had survived to set up the Council in the first place was because of an Iternan sorcerer; no wonder he was so reluctant to raise a finger against them.
“As for Bleakhaven, it’s not only small and resource-poor,” Robert had said, “it’s thousands of miles away and icebound. Unless we have weapons against snow, blizzards, thaws and people who are far more adapted to those conditions than we are, I don’t intend to order any incursions into Bleakhaven.”
Anthony Yurchand had nodded. “Denalay is probably the only land which might be successfully brought into the Dagran fold, and I don’t believe that’s worth a war.”
In hindsight, Richard thought he should have discussed ways to…increase Dagran territorial holdings…in one particular direction. But while he felt sure other lands wouldn’t be eager to enter a war, he had to anticipate the worst-case scenario. Just as he’d anticipated the Council’s moves—and he’d be proven right when Lunacy or Iternum rose in power. He only hoped it would happen in his lifetime.
Meghan set her wine glass aside, still half-full, so Richard signaled the mess boys to serve dessert—his favorite, grilled peaches sprinkled with brown sugar. She didn’t seem to find it as appetizing, despite his encouraging her to try it.
“But if you unleash the wave, the Council is even less likely to look with any favor on your request,” she said.
“If there is a Council once the water drains away.” Though Richard had no real hope of even a tidal wave doing that much damage, because Dagre simply didn’t have much coastline in comparison to its inland regions. That was also why he didn’t consider Denalay a danger—it was a nation of seafarers. “Besides, after I’ve proven I’m a man of my word, what will they do if I threaten to cause another? Or if news spreads through the land that the Council knew about the wave? At least I’ll have shown how easily they can come under threat.”
After that, he wasn’t sure. Even if he destabilized the Council and ensured they lost the people’s confidence, he couldn’t return to the mainland and hope to live for long. Hell, he didn’t even have any more explosives.
But he had Meghan. It might not be the olden days where taking a bride could bring a thousand knights into his service, but he’d rather have Meghan than those thousand knights anyway. A thousand nights with her wouldn’t be enough, but he’d also have someone with whom he could share the burden, someone who could help him plan his next move. And he had the gold too, like a dowry. His spirits rose.
“They’re not the only ones who can come under threat,” Meghan said. “What about you?”
Was she concerned about him? He hoped that was so. “Don’t worry. I had plenty of time to plan our defenses, and if Captain Garser so much as fires a cannon, he knows what will happen.”
“If he thinks blasting us out of the water is worth it…” She didn’t finish that. “One of his men is on your ship too.”
For a cold moment Richard thought a saboteur—or worse, an assassin—had slipped aboard without anyone but Meghan seeing him. Then he realized who she was referring to. “He’s not one of Garser’s men, he’s a Denalait, and there’s a guard in the infirmary. He’s going nowhere.”
That had clearly been the right thing to say, because the corners of her mouth turned up. “Good,” she said. “To our future, then.”
Richard clinked his glass against hers and dismissed the mess boys. It looked as though he’d got her in a better mood, so as soon as the door had closed, he reached across the table to take her hand.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for you?” he said.
The smile left her face. “Richard, I’m quite tired—”
“Then you’ll be more comfortable in bed.” Besides, for their first time he’d be quite satisfied if she just lay back. He could do the work, except with her it would be a pleasure. Getting to his feet, he tugged her hand until she did the same.
“I thought we were going to wait until we were married,” she said.
Richard stopped halfway to the bunk and turned to look at her. Her face was completely closed, blank except for the wariness in her eyes, and she certainly didn’t seem eager to be bedded.
He didn’t understand. Her uncle had signed a marriage contract, making her his. But more to the point, there was everything they shared. They were both of blood and breeding, they both hated the Council, and he’d secured her freedom; she’d admitted that less than an hour ago.
“Meghan?” He released her hand and kept his voice quiet, because he wanted to make matters clear to her, not frighten her. “Anyone would think you had no interest in the pleasures of physical intimacy. With me.”
“It’s not that, truly.” She looked beyond him at the neatly made bunk. “I don’t feel well, and we have all the rest of our lives together.”
“Our lives together start tonight.” He put his fingers to her forehead, and though she didn’t flinch, a visible tremor went through her. Fear? Desire, if she was playing hard to get? He couldn’t be sure, though he was certain she wasn’t fevered. “You’re not sick, are you? You’re not hurt in any way.”
“It might be my time of the month.”
That was a complication he hadn’t expected. But she didn’t sound too certain. Besides, even if the moon was red for her, he had no idea what might happen in the next few days. They had to take advantage of every hour, every moment together.
“Well, that’s good,” he said. “I won’t be doing you a favor, then.” If she was this unenthusiastic about getting into bed with him, he doubted she’d be eager to bear his children.
She didn’t seem to have heard him. Instead she stared at the bunk as if there was a spider in it, and Richard finally lost his patience.
“Meghan, I didn’t think I’d have to remind you of everything I’ve done for your family.” His voice was harsher than he’d intended, though far from the only part of him that was hard. She was so beautiful in the candlelight. “I supported your uncle’s bid for your grandfather’s throne and lost my home as a result. At the very least, you owe me your respect and affection. I’m sorry to say I’m not seeing any of that.”
A possibility occurred to him. “Was there someone else?” She looked at him then, apparently confused. “Another man. Are you scared I’ll find out you’re not a virgin?”
“Benevolent Ones, no.” That came out so swiftly he knew it was spontaneous, something she hadn’t needed to think about because it was the truth. Her eyes were wide, and he tried to reassure her.
“You were a prisoner for two years,” he said. “If they’d forced you, or if you had to barter your body for bread, I’d understand. The past doesn’t matter, not compared to what we have together.”
Meghan passed her tongue over her lips, then seemed to come to a decision. Her glossy dark head lifted, and although she didn’t smile, she spoke more lightly.
“You know,” she said, “I’m being silly. Or nervous. I still don’t feel well, but you’ll make me feel better.” Pulling at the cords on her bodice, she unlaced her dress down its front.
“That’s more like it.” Richard drew the blanket back for her. He had waited for this longer than he’d ever waited for a woman, and a rush of need sang through his blood. “You’ll enjoy this, trust…”
; His voice died in his throat.
Meghan pushed the dress off her shoulders. It slid down, sleeves crumpling around her wrists and the tight waistband preventing it from falling any farther, but the perfect skin he’d expected to see was marred. Small fluid-filled bumps speckled her belly and arms, dotted her breasts. They were too large and too angry a color to be blisters.
His heart jerked as though a cold hand had reached into his chest. The last time he had seen his mother alive, before he’d been hustled away by servants trying to spare him, she’d had a rash of red spots across her face. Gods above. She said she felt sick, but not like this, not with—
Meghan’s gaze dropped to her body and she gasped. “Is—is it the pox?”
Richard jerked away so sharply his hip struck a cabinet, though he barely felt it. A candle fell, the flame hissing out on the floor.
“Richard, don’t look at me like that! It’s not—not smallpox, is it?”
He backed towards the door, unable to take his eyes off the horror of her. His chest ached as he fought not to breathe; the contagion was spread through the air too. And it would run like wildfire through his ship, wouldn’t it? The Council must have known, must have sent her to him like that. He’d touched her, he had to wash his hands, scrub them with lye, change his clothes, have those burned.
“Stay there!” Reaching behind him, he twisted the doorknob and retreated over the threshold. “Stay there. I’ll send the doctor to—”
“No!” Jerking the front of the dress up, she rushed forward. Richard tried to shove the door shut, but she reached it, and he sprang back rather than allow her to touch him.
“Don’t shut me away!” she cried out. “Don’t lock me away like the Council did. Please, Richard. If this is the pox, take me where I can be treated, where they can watch in case I start bleeding from—everywhere. Please.”
Richard took another few paces back, to give himself room to breathe. The air had turned to smoke, and sweat trickled down his spine, but his initial reaction—all right, call it what it was, outright panic—was fading. Should he take her to the infirmary? Even that short journey would expose more of his ship to her.
But everyone nearby might have heard what she’d blurted out—she’d been almost as panicked as he had. The only way to keep fear from spreading faster than sickness through the ship was to assure the men that everything was under control. Did that mean locking her in his cabin or taking her to the infirmary?
Maybe it wasn’t actually the pox, he thought hopefully. There were other, less lethal diseases which produced red blisters, and despite the ugliness of those, she wasn’t fevered. She wasn’t sweating or purple-flushed or any of the other horrible signs he was only too familiar with. Hell, he felt sicker than she probably did.
Besides, now he saw the reason for her earlier reluctance. Rather than it having anything to do with him, she really had felt ill.
“All right.” He swallowed. “All right, I’ll take you to the infirmary.” He’d have the doctor look him over too, and tell him what precautions were best to take. Thank the Benevolent Ones it hadn’t been dark in the cabin, or else he might have… “Put your dress back on.”
Lera lay motionless. She felt the boat being hauled up and secured, and when that was done the two men climbed out. The thuds of their boots echoed into the dark, confined space where she was hidden below them.
She held her breath in case they heard the slightly hollow sound, but nothing happened. Bringing her arms up, she began to open the false floor of the boat.
The carpenters on Nemesis hadn’t used nails to secure those planks, because the noise as they were prised up might have alerted someone. Instead, the planks had been carefully set into grooves cut into the hull, and those grooves had been oiled so she could slide them out of the way with relative ease. She worked fast, but it still took her a long time to clear a wide enough space without making a sound.
Wriggling out past the thwarts, she listened intently, but all she heard was the cluck and scratch of chickens nearby. Meghan had said Richard would be duty-bound to treat her with hospitality—at first—so during the meal she would try to find out where Kovir was. Then she would have herself escorted there, so Lera could take them both with her when she left Princeps.
Lera waited for as long as she dared before she pulled herself up to the gunwale. Plenty of handholds, thanks to the taut ropes which ran back and forth from the boom, below the nearest sail, to a heavy block of pulleys. She had to turn sideways to slip between the ropes. It was dark by then, and the deck lit with an occasional lantern, but no one was in sight.
She climbed over the rail. One of her feet slipped and she thudded to the deck.
Immediately she heard someone coming in her direction. She put a foot on the edge of the chicken coop—thankfully it didn’t tip over, maybe there were a lot of hens—and climbed on top. That was enough for her to leap up and grab part of the rigging.
The deck creaked softly as the man came closer. Below her, he paused a foot or two away, then headed for the gunwale. She’d be done for if he saw the boat, since she hadn’t replaced the boards.
She let herself drop—straight down on him. That broke her fall and he crumpled to the deck. The thud was louder that time, and she could only hope no one had been near enough to hear.
She wore her saber as always, but she’d taken a knife as well before she’d climbed into the boat and she pulled that blade. He was only dazed, but as his eyes focused she let him see the knife before she put the edge to his throat.
“Call for help,” she said quietly, “and you’ll die. Where’s Meghan?”
He stared at her blankly. She flicked a glance at his clothes, but she’d already guessed he was what Dagrans called an able seaman, not someone privy to the details of the captain’s doings. “Richard Alth’s woman. Where is she?”
“The infirmary,” the man whispered.
“Where is that?”
He swallowed. “The deck below this one, towards the stern.”
One last question. “Is anyone on guard?”
He gave a jerky little nod. Lera hesitated, then drew her knife across his throat.
She hadn’t really wanted to kill him, but she had no time to do anything else, and she couldn’t take the risk of leaving him alive. Her forearm slammed down on his neck to stanch the blood, and with a swift look around, she stripped off her coat. Over her shirt she pulled his tunic, and he wore a cap that hid her telltale hair. Other sentries might have been alerted by the splash of his body being heaved overboard, so she rolled it beneath the chicken coop instead.
Cleaning off her knife on her pants, she went to the nearest hatch. She didn’t try to stay in the cover of the masts; she walked as if she had every right to go where she was going, and although she saw more men standing on watch at the prow and towards the stern, no one challenged her. She climbed down the ladder.
Not for the first time, she hoped she could trust Meghan. It wasn’t as though the girl had been treated well by Garser, and while Meghan looked like a delicate waif, from what Lera had heard, she had a streak of self-preservation bordering on ruthlessness. She wasn’t entirely a safe person to depend on, in other words, and if she felt she had more to gain from Richard, Lera knew she might well be walking into a trap.
But for Kovir’s sake, she had to do it.
She started off down the passage, and a door opened just ahead of her. Before she could duck back around the turn in the passage, a man stepped out.
In a fight for her life, Lera acted out of sheer instinct rather than stopping to think, and that gave her the advantage of speed against men who outmatched her otherwise. She took two swift strides forward, already turning her knife so the blade lay along her wrist and pointed to her elbow. The man’s eyes widened. Before he could react, her fist slammed into his face.
Her fingers went numb, but t
he blow—weighted with her knife’s hilt—broke his nose and made his eyes roll up in his head. She caught him with her other arm before he could fall and lowered his body to the ground, then rubbed her right hand roughly, coaxing it back into a pins-and-needles ache that dulled and faded away.
Lifting the man’s body was an effort, but she managed to get it across her shoulders. The crew of Princeps didn’t wear the kinds of uniforms she was used to, but the man’s clothes were much better than the deckhand’s, enough to tell he was an officer. Moving slowly because of his weight and keeping her head down, she headed for the infirmary.
The man on watch saw her coming from a distance, but rather than raising the alarm he hurried forward to help her with her burden. One swift upward look was enough to show her he was much taller than she was, an eyepatch fixed like a black clot to his face.
“Benevolent Ones!” he said. “What happened?”
Lera plunged her knife into his belly—or tried to. She never knew if she’d given herself away by looking up or if the man’s reflexes had been too good, but he jerked back and the blade missed him. Before she could strike again, he turned on his heel and dashed into the infirmary.
Lera dropped the officer’s body and bolted after him. She might have caught him, except another man wearing a stained apron was in the way. She slammed headlong into him. Surgical instruments scattered everywhere—so much for the element of surprise—and the man sprawled on the floor, but over the noise she heard Kovir shout for her hoarsely.
The infirmary was what she had expected. Low-ceilinged, dim, cluttered with bunks and supplies and hammocks hanging from the rafters, the worst possible place to fight. But she knew where she was going. She shoved the knife into her belt, and her saber hissed from its scabbard as she sprang forward in the direction of Kovir’s voice.
A third man she hadn’t seen before lunged at her from one side. Lera brought her saber up to parry, but the man had been an instant too fast. Something whistled through the air and struck her hand—a glancing blow, but still so hard she thought the bones had cracked. The saber flew out of her fingers and went spinning across the floor.
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