The Highest Tide

by Marian Perera

  Grilled crayfish was Richard’s favorite dish, but for once he wasn’t looking forward to it. How had they found out about the fuses? Had Nemesis picked up one of Pelican’s crew before running for cover? But he hadn’t used the crews to dig the holes for the caches. That had been done by the men he’d later paid to guard the island, so that if those men had second thoughts, they couldn’t leave and betray him.

  Well, he’d get an answer, but first there was something else he’d been longing to do. He had no interest in the woman—Remerley was the one he wanted to question, not some Denalait bitch—but he did have a small score to settle with her.

  He moved forward and stopped in front of her chair. If she was frightened, she didn’t look it; her eyes were stony. With enough time and light to observe her, he recognized the scar—they’d once had a groom caught in a stable fire, trying to save the horses, and the result had looked much the same.

  He turned away, then pivoted around and flung his arm out. The back of his hand struck her face so hard that her chair tilted before it slammed back down to all four feet.

  Richard stepped back. His hand stung, but it had left a pretty imprint across the unscarred side of her face, and she looked dazed. A bead of blood glistened at a corner of her mouth and made a red line to her chin.

  “My lord.” After the crack of flesh on flesh, Remerley’s voice sounded odd, perhaps because he spoke as if they were meeting at some social occasion. He didn’t sound angry, just courteous and concerned at the same time. “Please. There’s no need for that. We’re at your mercy and we know we’re alive only because of your sufferance. We’ll do whatever you want.”

  That was more like it, though Richard wasn’t stupid enough to be taken in. Remerley knew he had his back to a wall, so he had no option but to grovel. Besides, it was galling to know that if not for Richard’s father’s kindness, and his family’s money, there was no way a plowman’s son would spout words like “sufferance”.

  Suffering, maybe.

  “Then start talking,” he said, “and I don’t mean that kind of oil-tongued flattery. How did you know?”

  Remerley managed as much of a shrug as he could with his hands bound securely behind his back. “I didn’t, at first. We fell overboard when your ship attacked, and we drifted ashore. I thought we might make a signal fire on the cliff to attract Captain Garser’s attention, but when we climbed up there, we saw signs of digging and wondered what had been buried.”

  So it had been a lucky accident, and Richard breathed a little easier. “Why were you on that ship, anyway?”

  “To identify you. After your trick using a lookalike—”

  “Ah, I see. But her?”

  Remerley raised his brows. “She’s a captain in the Denalait navy. Captain Garser may have assumed she’d be useful.”

  She most certainly was, since she’d taken his bride from him. Richard wondered if he might trade her for Meghan, but quickly realized it wouldn’t work. Even if Garser agreed to such a trade, Meghan hadn’t wanted to be with him, had never wanted him. If he got her back, he’d probably have to watch her day and night in case she flung herself overboard.

  In retrospect, everything had gone wrong for him after he had thrown his lot in with her family. At the time, he’d been stinging from the Council’s dismissal, so Matthew Nucira’s friendship and support had been welcome.

  Still, he might not have gone as far as a tidal wave—except for Meghan, sworn to him if he lent his support to placing her on the throne. It wasn’t even the fact that she had the blood of kings. It was her, elusive and aloof and lovely. She’d been sixteen at the time, but her uncle had promised they would be married on her eighteenth birthday. Though in his cynical moments, Richard had wondered why the man was so eager to hew to the regulations about marital age when he didn’t mind breaking the law that said, thou shalt not take up arms against the government of thy land.

  In any event, the Council had ruined those plans as well, not only putting down the rebellion but seizing Meghan. That had incensed Richard to the point of no return.

  “My lord?” Remerley said. “May I ask a question?”

  Surprised out of his reverie, Richard nodded before he could think twice. He supposed it was the tone of Remerley’s voice—polite, but also as unstressed as if he expected the simple request to be granted. Before he could say anything about it, Remerley turned to look at the portrait on the wall.

  “Is that Lady Lorna?” he said.

  It was the oddest question, completely irrelevant to what they had been talking about. Richard glanced out of the window, in case Remerley was trying to distract him from something, but there were no ships in sight and the work on the rudder seemed to be in progress.

  “That is my mother,” he said. The portrait had been one of the few things Voyjole had managed to spirit out of his house before the Council’s army had reached it. Thankfully Voyjole had offered to keep it safe on Princeps, which could take far more fire than Pelican.

  Remerley nodded slowly, as if that confirmed some rumor he’d heard. “I was never so fortunate as to meet Lady Lorna, but her eyes…they’re the same color as Lord Jason’s.”

  The portrait didn’t do justice to his mother, as far as Richard was concerned, but the artist had indeed captured her eyes, the soft hue of the sky on a summer’s day. “Yes. They were cousins. Is there a point to this, or are you just trying to prolong the last hour of your life?”

  It was starting to annoy him, how Remerley didn’t seem at all afraid. “I’d like to prolong all our lives, my lord. Yours too. Please let me suggest an alternative, a way out for yourself and your crew.”

  “Don’t waste your breath.”

  “My lord?” Voyjole said from the door. He stood with his hands at his sides, fingers curled so his knuckles dug into the wood. “I’m sorry, but I would like to hear what he’s got to say.”

  “Why bother? We’ll never be allowed back in Dagre—unless we’re in fetters or dead.”

  “Don’t go back to Dagre, then,” Remerley said. “Allow Captain Garser and his crew to remove the threat on the island in return for all the food and water and medical attention your crew needs. Garser will honor his word if you hold true to yours.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then leave. You have a ship. A ship is meant for sailing beyond the horizon. Take Princeps and find a safe place for yourself and your crew.”

  “You must think I’m an idiot.” What safe place could there be—one of the other islands? Sooner or later he’d be hunted down again.

  “I think you’re a lord of the land,” Remerley said evenly. “Except you have no more land to be a lord of. But you might, in the future.”

  “What land is there in the world besides Eden?” With his luck, they might sail for years until the last starving survivors saw solid ground, only to discover it was Denalay or Bleakhaven, on the other side of the continent. “No one’s ever seen more than a few offshore islands.”

  “No one’s gone very far. You could be the first, and whatever you find would be yours to keep.”

  Richard shook his head. “Even if I were willing to sail off in search of such a pipe dream, I don’t believe the Council would simply let me go—and they have technology they’d use to track me down.”

  He walked closer. “No, I’m not going to run. Especially not when it’s you urging me to do so. You think I haven’t forgotten what you did?”

  Remerley had to tilt his head back a little to meet Richard’s eyes, but if Richard had been expecting a downcast, shameful expression as an acknowledgement of the past, he would have been disappointed. “I certainly haven’t forgotten it, so I know you won’t have.” He paused. “My lord, I never said this to you seventeen years ago, but I’m deeply sorry for what I did. I know I hurt you. On the other hand, I don’t think that justifies murder. We all make mistakes. Sometimes those a
re serious mistakes we regret and wish we could change the consequences of. But if we can’t alter those consequences, we can at least do our best not to harm anyone else.”

  What a lovely speech, Richard thought. What an elegant, eloquent speech, fit for the books he would never have got his hands on if not for the Alth family’s generosity, and now he dared to vomit all that in Richard’s face. As if he was so morally superior and could preach to lesser people from on high.

  But Richard knew how to stop that. He knew exactly how to stop it. Without needing to lay a hand on the bastard.

  “You killed my father, didn’t you?” he said.

  “What?” For the first time since he had been brought into the cabin, Remerley looked genuinely taken aback, and Richard had never enjoyed a sight more.

  “He died that night, but he never drank to excess, so why would he fall down the stairs?” He saw it all happen as if it were unfolding in a picture book before his eyes—looks as though you’re not the only smart one. “You sneaked into our house. The dogs were used to you, so they didn’t bark. Then you pushed him.”

  “Are you—” Remerley caught himself with a visible effort and went on, though he didn’t sound nearly as calm and confident as he’d done before. “My lord, why on Eden would I kill…” he glanced at Voyjole, “…your father? He was always kind to my family. I gained nothing from his death. In fact, once you became the lord you had us evicted, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember.” Richard suppressed a smile, because it was quite pleasant to see the man so ill at ease. “I’ll tell you what you gained when he died. He’d have thrown you off our land too—maybe not your father, but you, because he knew you were jealous of me. He knew as well as I did that you were always trying to make yourself look better than me, and he’d had about as much of that as he could stomach.”

  He paused for effect. “He would have sent an upjumped nobody like you packing, and good riddance. Except you murdered him first.”

  Remerley’s face hardened. “Then why didn’t I kill you too?”

  Richard blinked. He wasn’t sure how to reply, and before he could come up with anything, Remerley went on.

  “Why didn’t I kill you too?” he said, and there was no more of the respect—however feigned it might have been—that had underlined all his words when he’d first started speaking. “If I’d crept into your house at night and if I was willing to have one man’s blood on my hands, why not yours too? I knew where you slept. Or would I have found your bedroom empty had I gone there…my lord?”

  Richard nearly hit him. His right arm twitched, and he forced himself to stay still, though the effort didn’t make his mind any less blank. He could hardly believe Remerley had stymied him like that—and what could he say now? What could he do to silence the man for good?

  He opened his mouth to order Voyjole to kill him, then paused. Why start with him? Remerley had only begun to speak when the woman had got a little of what she deserved, as though he was trying to protect her—and it had worked for a while, because Richard had been too busy dealing with him to pay any attention to her.

  He glanced at her, mulling over what would be the best option. There was the bunk, but she wasn’t his type at all. Too foreign and obviously lowborn. The lush curves were wasted with a face like hers, and he’d never cared for red hair. That was a sure sign of a violent temperament, which was very unattractive in a woman.

  No, he had a far better idea. “Voyjole.”

  “My lord?”

  “I’m cold.” He sat on the bunk, stretching, and looked at the woman so Remerley would have absolutely no doubt about what was going to happen, and why. “Have one of the men bring a brazier in here, would you? I’d like a very hot fire.”

  I won’t react, Lera thought. I won’t show fear.

  She said that over and over silently as a man carried in an iron brazier filled with coals, but her skin was as sweat-slick as her mouth was dry. Pressing the soles of her boots to the floor so her knees wouldn’t tremble, she tried to think of some way out, any way out. Nothing came to mind.

  Flames flickered brightly in her peripheral vision. She refused to look at those or at Jason, because she didn’t want him to see she was afraid. If he did, he might try something reckless and get himself killed for his efforts. Besides, she could bear pain. It’s not as if this is your first time, she told herself, then wondered if she was going crazy through sheer dread.

  Richard came over to her and grabbed her arm. Lera rose of her own accord, though that was an effort. She didn’t intend to waste any of her strength fighting him without an escape route. They’d taken her saber, and her hands were bound. She could have tried to wrench free and lash the heel of her boot into his groin, but Voyjole stood with his back to the window, watching as Richard pulled her over to the brazier. He wasn’t likely to stay out of it if she hurt his master.

  “My lord, don’t do this,” Jason said. “Please.”

  Richard picked up a little brass poker and stirred the coals—to expose more of their glowing undersides, Lera realized. Then he shoved the poker among the coals and slid a hand into her hair, his fingers tightening to hold her head steady.

  “Are you really so degenerate you’ll sink to torturing a woman?” Jason’s voice slashed out, but when he continued, he turned to look at Voyjole for some reason. “You think Lord Alth and your mother are looking down on you, proud of what they brought into the world?”

  Richard’s breathing was audible and his mouth twisted, but Lera’s last hope vanished like a raindrop on the coals as he said, “The more you talk, the more she’ll scream.”

  Then he shoved her head down.

  All the bone-deep terror she’d tried to suppress burst loose. She twisted and wrenched her head away—or tried to—but he was stronger, and the unburned side of her face came closer and closer to the flames. Her hands jerked at the ropes until blood slicked her wrists. From the corner of her eye she saw a quick movement, but it was only Voyjole turning around as if he preferred the view out of the window.

  The sharp stench of burning hair filled her nostrils, and then she saw nothing as her eyelids closed. Please don’t let me be blind. She could bear being scarred again but she needed both her eyes. The heat was scorching on her cheek, unbearable, and she sank her teeth into her tongue so she wouldn’t scream.

  “My lord!”

  The strange tone in Voyjole’s voice penetrated even her panic, and Richard pulled her head up an inch or so. The whole left side of her face stung far worse than the backhand he’d given her earlier. She opened her eyes in time to see Voyjole point wordlessly at something beyond the window.

  Richard released her and hurried over to him. Lera staggered against the wall, gasping. She had to use the respite to think, to do something while Richard had his back to her, but all she could do was breathe.

  “What are they doing there?” Richard spun around and stared at Jason.

  “What are who—”

  “One of the men I stationed on the island raised a distress flag. We arranged to use that if Council forces landed. How did they get there without my seeing them?”

  Lera was so startled she nearly forgot about the fire. Could Garser’s men be on the island? Why hadn’t she and Jason seen any of them?

  “You told us no one was on the island except the two of you.” Richard strode back to her side and yanked the poker out of the flames. The tip glowed red-hot. “What else did you lie about?”

  “Why don’t you respond?” Lera’s mouth was still as dry as if it had been seared too, but something else burned deep in her chest, scorching her fear away. “To the distress flag. Order your men to detonate the explosives.”

  Richard looked at her as if he hadn’t heard that correctly—though she hoped she had distracted him from the poker and what he might do with it. “Then you’ll die too.”

  She s
miled. “I know.”

  Either the reply or her expression seemed to give him pause. He looked at the heated poker as if not sure how it had got into his hand, but before he could do anything else, Jason spoke.

  “I know how it happened,” he said.

  Richard shoved the poker back into the coals. “Then talk, or I’ll make her swallow these.”

  The cool disgust in Jason’s voice could have reduced any fire to ashes. “I’ll tell you because there’s no harm in you knowing, not because such depraved and cowardly threats deserve a response. Remember Kovir? He has a shark, and it would have taken—”

  “Kovir?” Richard’s forehead creased in a frown. “The boy who was spying on us? How could he have a shark?”

  Lera felt her smile grow broader. “Seawatch employs a lot of little boys and girls. They’re all bonded to huge fucking sharks.”

  Her choice of language as well as the information seemed to come as a shock, because both Richard and Voyjole stared at her in silence. “Precisely,” Jason said, as if he’d known that all along. “I imagine the shark carried Garser’s men to the island—underwater, since Nemesis has rebreathers.”

  Richard’s skin had gone an unhealthy color, and when he spoke, he sounded as though he was talking to himself. “That’s how you got away, then,” he said to Lera. “That’s what tipped the boats over.”

  She wasn’t sure what the last remark meant, but capsizing boats sounded like something Kovir’s shark might do, and Unity knew he had reason to do it, so she nodded. Richard seemed unsure which threat to face first—Garser’s men on the island or the shark closer at hand—and her mind raced. If she and Jason could take advantage of his being caught off-guard, his moment of indecision, they might stall until—

  A sharp knock made them all start, but when Voyjole pulled the door open, it was a deckhand. “Captain—I mean, my lord.” He saluted belatedly. “The rudder’s been repaired.”

  Richard’s relief was almost palpable and she heard his exhalation as if he’d been holding his breath a long time. “Good,” he said. “Get the ship moving, then. Olber knows where to go.”