Voyager of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  She folded her spare shirt and tucked it into her bag, which lay on the elderly bed’s sagging mattress. No doubt its lumpiness, and how scratchy the gray wool blanket was, had contributed to her sleeplessness the night before, but mostly she was eager to be off. She cinched the buckles and slung the bag over her shoulder. How freeing, to have all her worldly possessions in a single bag. The coach had arrived in time yesterday for her to go to the Bank of Kingsport and deposit most of her money. Her savings was a significant amount, and Rowena Farrell would want it when she came back from her adventure.

  Zara had left the loom in its rented shed and sent a message up the mountain to Telaine: don’t need it anymore, turn it into a Device and sell it, give the money to my grandnieces and –nephew. Heaven only knew what Telaine would make of that, but she’d do as Zara asked. Now Zara had a sizeable amount of coin in her bag, enough for her fare, she hoped, and as she settled the tab with the innkeeper, she breathed in the smell of warm ale that permeated the walls and tables and gave the woman a cheery farewell.

  It was a beautiful autumn day, sunny, with a crispness to the air that spoke of apples and smoke and the promise of winter, which in this port city was milder than in Longbourne but still snowy. Kingsport was an old city, older than Aurilien, and it looked its age, but in a well-kept way. Centuries-old buildings, their half-timbered frames a study in dark and pale contrasts, stood like pieces of history against which men and women in modern dress looked like children playing at dress-up.

  She caught a whiff of refuse that the Devices used to clean the streets would take care of later that night. Kingsport’s citizens might be proud of their city’s heritage and determined to preserve its historical character, but they weren’t stupid enough to reject useful new Devisery. There were light Devices on lampposts lining the streets of even the slightly impoverished district she was passing through, though they were shaped to look like lanterns and would no doubt flicker like flames when they came on at night.

  She stepped out of the way of a wagon drawing a load of crates that made the wagon bed sag alarmingly in the middle. Wouldn’t it be interesting if that cargo ended up on the same ship she did?

  She heard the harbor before she saw it, the kraaawing of sea birds and the shouts of wagoners mingling with the creak of wood and the snap of ropes. She came over the rise of the cobblestone street and saw the sea, blue-gray in the morning light and smelling of brine and mist. It was so vast she stopped at the top of the hill and watched it for a while. She’d never been to sea and had no idea what to expect, though she worried that seasickness wasn’t something her inherent magic could prevent.

  Another laden wagon rumbled past, forcing her to step off the street onto the sidewalk and bringing her back to the present. She followed the wagon down the hill, which wasn’t terribly steep but would surely be slick and dangerous in winter. Not that she’d be there to find out.

  Kingsport’s harbor was a nearly perfect circle, easily defensible, though no one had ever attacked it in all the hundreds of years of its existence. Tall stone buildings with narrow slits for windows lining the curve completed the illusion of a city prepared for war. She came to the end of the street, where a rail prevented anyone from accidentally stepping over the edge of the sea-wall. The ancient black stones, set there in a time when Tremontane was a new country, reflected the sunlight dully, as if soaking it up against the coming winter.

  Long splintery docks extended into the harbor, and dozens of tiny boats lay tied up to them—or were they ships? Some of them had one or two masts with sails furled tightly to them. Farther out in the harbor, the big ships rode the gentle waves that broke against the mouth of the bay, their masts and rigging like bare trees strung with spider’s silk, though it was hard to imagine a spider capable of spinning webs strong enough to hold the men who clambered over the rigging like monkeys.

  Steep, narrow steps set into the sea-wall took her down to the docks, where she walked, counting, until she came to the seventh pier. A rowboat was tethered there, overseen by a woman in a pea jacket and knit hat. She looked so perfectly the part of a sailor Zara said, “Miss Lyton?”

  The woman turned. “Yes?”

  “Rowena Farrell. Mistress Falken arranged passage for me on your ship?”

  “Not my ship, but I take your meaning. This your baggage?” She pointed at Zara’s bag. “Come aboard, and we’ll take you to the Emma Covington. She’s not ready to sail yet, but you might as well stow your gear now.”

  Zara clambered into the rowboat and settled herself at the front—no, the bow, she didn’t know much about boats, but she knew bow and stern, starboard and port—with her bag on her lap. She watched Lyton and another sailor move about, neatly coiling rope and adjusting the oars. They weren’t dressed in any special uniform, but then this wasn’t a military ship, it was a cargo vessel that also carried passengers. She twisted around to look behind her, out into the harbor. One of those was the Emma Covington, soon to be her home for the next month or more. They all looked the same to her, but she didn’t much care about their differences; she was eager to begin her journey.

  The boat rocked, and she turned to see a young man, barely an adult, stepping over the side, one hand gripping a seaman’s bag like hers and the other clutching his oversized belt. He was followed by a tall, handsome man who smiled at her appreciatively. She smiled back in a practiced way that said Don’t waste both our time.

  Lyton stepped into the boat and said, “Cast off,” and the sailors pushed off from the pier, dipped their oars, and began pulling in long, smooth strokes out into the harbor.

  Zara trailed her hand in the water and smiled at the young man, whose dark face had the wooden expression of someone utterly terrified. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the other man examining her closely, but she pretended not to notice. They’d all be cooped up together for more than a month, and there was no sense shutting him down hard without trying the polite way first. Zara turned around again to look at the ships. She wasn’t even aboard yet, but she felt her adventure had already begun.

  Chapter Two

  Zara stood at the rail and closed her eyes against the sun that turned the waves into glittering shards of glass. It was beautifully warm, the air smelled of salt, and an occasional breeze brushed her cheeks like a butterfly’s kiss. It was hard to imagine snow and cold on a day like this, but if she were still in Longbourne, she’d probably be shoveling out the path between her house and Verity’s shop next door, and Abel Roberts’ grandnephew Enos would be preparing to drive the earth mover down the mountain to clear the pass. Today was her eighty-seventh birthday, and for the first time in as long as she could remember she didn’t resent it.

  It was hard to feel resentment, or any negative emotion, for that matter, in these balmy southern seas. They’d encountered only two storms on the whole trip; the food was plain but good and plentiful; her fellow passengers were, if not all friendly, not objectionable. And they were about two days out from Goudge’s Folly. It was an excellent day for a birthday, even if she was celebrating it in private.

  “Looking for land again, Rowena?” Gaston Digby came to stand beside her. His voice was teasing as usual. “Or for whales?”

  “Not looking for anything this time,” Zara said. “What about you?”

  “You’re the only thing worth looking at on this blasted ship,” he said with a smile. Zara smiled back. Gaston was tall, fair-haired, extremely handsome, and fully aware of how attractive his physical attributes were. He had flirted with her relentlessly but without serious intent since they’d boarded the ship’s longboat; she’d deflected his courtesies gracefully and chuckled over them in private. He was in his thirties, but they all seemed so young to her, with their enthusiasms and certainty that the world was theirs to conquer. And yet she had so little in common with those her own age, who were quietly—or not so quietly, given how vocal some of them were about their ailments and ungrateful children—wrapping up their affairs on earth in prepa
ration for heaven. If she’d been interested in developing a romantic relationship, which she was not, it was hard for her to imagine the kind of man she might fall in love with, except that Gaston wasn’t it.

  “What, you don’t want to watch the sailors in the rigging?” she said.

  Gaston shuddered. “Men were not meant to fly, and they certainly weren’t meant to hang by their ankles from the topmast yardarm or whatever it’s called. It chills my bones every time I look at them.”

  “Look at what?” Belinda Stouffer said, taking a position on Zara’s other side. Her short brown hair fell forward over her eyes and she pushed it out of the way. “There’s nothing out there but waves and more waves. By heaven, I can’t wait for landfall.”

  “We were discussing Gaston’s future career as a sail monkey,” Zara said. Belinda, an independent merchant, had very quickly gone from being an acquaintance to a friend, and she and Zara and Gaston and Alfred Richfield, a shipping magnate’s factor, spent most evenings together, playing cards or swapping stories.

  “I’d pay money to see Gaston climb the rigging,” Belinda said. “Wouldn’t you, Rowena?”

  “No amount of money could convince me to do that,” Gaston said.

  “I could forgive your gambling debts,” Zara said.

  “No need. I’m going to win everything back tonight.”

  “Not against Rowena. I’ve never seen anyone so good at poker.”

  “I’m lucky, I guess,” Zara said, though the truth was she found poker simple after a long lifetime of observing people’s faces, and sometimes played a bad hand to keep from looking too lucky. She leaned out over the rail again. “I think I see something. Is that a whale?”

  The other two shaded their eyes. “It looks like a ship,” Gaston said.

  “That would be interesting,” Belinda said. “Someone new to talk to.” She was short and plump, half Zara’s age and twice as outgoing.

  “In the first place,” said Gaston, “it’s unlikely they’re coming along our path, so we won’t encounter them. And secondly, what’s wrong with talking to us? Is novelty so important to you?”

  “I’m bored. Novelty would help me stay sane.”

  Zara gazed out over the waves and focused on the distant ship. “Maybe it’s a Karitian ship. That would be interesting. Do you suppose they’d even be willing to talk to us?”

  “They’re probably as bored as we are. That has to make a difference.” Belinda stretched and yawned. “I’m going below to take a nap before dinner. I wish I’d brought more books.” She turned to make her way down the stairs, but had to step aside for a tall, dusky-skinned woman who came up the companionway, followed by an equally tall and dark-skinned man. Neither of them behaved as if they’d noticed Belinda at all.

  Zakhari Cantara and her brother Zakhari Arjan had come aboard at Umberan and stayed aloof from the other passengers since then. They’d said, in broken Tremontanese, they were working-class Eskandelics traveling to find work on Goudge’s Folly, but Zara understood the Eskandelic language and was fairly certain they spoke Tremontanese better than they let on. That indicated they were upper class, possibly even children of a harem. They were circumspect even privately in their own language, but Zara also suspected they weren’t siblings, but married, or at least betrothed, which raised a number of other questions Zara couldn’t leave alone. It really wasn’t any of her business, but she’d found over the years that if you were keeping a secret, other people’s secrets could be a danger to you.

  Cantara took Arjan’s arm and they proceeded to stroll around the perimeter of the deck. Zara looked back out at the distant ship. It was probably only her imagination that it was closer. The thought filled her with inexplicable unease. “I think I’ll go check on Eglantine,” she said, and followed Belinda down the companionway. Eglantine Tucker had a nervous stomach and an equally nervous disposition, and she annoyed Zara because of her diffident manner that suggested she was waiting for the world to take care of her, but Zara wasn’t cruel and didn’t mind helping her in her illness. Much.

  She descended into the muggy dimness of the passenger deck and knocked on Eglantine’s door. At a muffled “come in,” she entered, saying, “I thought you might be feeling poorly again.”

  “I really am sorry to trouble you,” Eglantine said, “it’s just that I feel so unwell.” Her thin, high voice grated on Zara’s nerves. She reminded herself to be kind and went to help the young woman sit up.

  “I’ll bring you something to drink that should settle your stomach, but you have to remember not to eat heavy food,” she said. “It makes things worse.”

  “But that’s almost all they serve,” Eglantine said. “I can’t not eat.”

  “Just…try, all right?” Zara said, feeling her impatience come creeping back. “Think about…how wonderful it will be to see your husband. Only a few more days now. Captain Proctor says we should see land tonight. Not see it, because it’ll be dark, but be within sight.”

  Eglantine smiled wanly at her. “All right. You’re too good to me.”

  You wouldn’t say that if you could hear some of my thoughts. “It’s no trouble. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  The “special drink” was bicarbonate of soda mixed with boiled water, and Eglantine drank it without making a face for once. Zara helped her lie down and left her to rest. On the way out of the door, she nearly bumped into Theodore Jenkins. “Excuse me,” she said.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, and brushed past, one hand on his belt as always. Theodore was about sixteen, though he acted younger, and although the belt didn’t look like anything special, made of woven fabric instead of leather, it was obvious to Zara he was concealing something precious inside it. She watched him go, reflecting how Telaine’s son Owen would probably look like him in a few years, though pale instead of dark. Theodore never said much, but he’d told them he was going to Goudge’s Folly to finish his apprenticeship in Devisery with his aunt. Possibly his nervousness and shyness would disappear once he was safely on land again. Zara certainly never saw him go near the deck rails.

  It was almost suppertime, but she went back up on deck anyway. The unknown ship was definitely closer. She didn’t know any more about ships than she’d learned in passing from the crew of the Emma Covington, but it seemed to be carrying more sail than theirs. She glanced around at the crew; none of them acted worried at all. It was probably nothing.

  “Miss Farrell. It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?”

  Zara nodded, but didn’t turn to face Mister Watson, the ship’s first mate. “Very lovely.”

  “It’s almost suppertime. You should go below.”

  His paternalistic tone of voice irritated her. “I’ll go when I’m ready, thank you.”

  “You wouldn’t want to delay the meal, would you? That’s not very polite.”

  Zara ground her teeth. Watson always sounded polite, but he’d gotten on Zara’s nerves the first day when he’d treated her like a child because she knew nothing of shipboard customs. And now he continued to treat her like a child and went out of his way to remind her of things she’d learned quickly to spite him. Men like him never failed to rile her, no matter how old she was. “They still ring the supper bell, don’t they? I’ll go then and not before.”

  “I really think—”

  “Mister Watson,” Zara said, turning on him, “I question whether your duties include monitoring my every action. Perhaps we should ask the captain to mediate? I’m sure he will love adding that to his undoubtedly busy schedule.”

  Watson’s mouth went pinched with anger. “Miss Farrell, you are a passenger here, and you aren’t allowed to decide what your rights are. It’s my job to make sure you’re safe.”

  “Again, Mister Watson, I’m more than willing to take it up with the captain. I believe, having paid my fare, I’m entitled to make a few requests, one of which is freedom from being hovered over by you like a particularly inept buzzard.” She strode off toward the companionway—end an argume
nt on your terms—and down the steps before he could do more than open his mouth for a retort.

  Safely in her cabin, she sat on the bed and took a calming breath. Now she was out of his presence, she was angrier with herself than with him. That had been the Queen talking, down to the syntax, and maybe nobody was looking for Zara North, but she’d spent so many years hiding that breaking those habits felt wrong and almost frightening, as if she weren’t in control of herself. And self-control was something she’d always held dear.

  Distantly, she heard the bell ring for supper, and stood and dusted off her trousers, though there wasn’t anything to dust. She’d have to avoid Watson more diligently in the future. Better for both of them if he didn’t have another opportunity to criticize her. Two more days, and it wouldn’t matter.

  Supper was, as usual, a cheery affair for Zara and most of the passengers, though the Zakharis kept to themselves and Theodore only spoke when spoken to. Afterward, while the steward cleared the table for the card game, Zara went up on deck again. The strange ship was definitely closer, and now she could see the sailors casting glances at it as they went about their duties. Captain Proctor stood near the wheel, having a low-voiced conversation with Lyton and the steersman.

  On a whim, Zara approached them. The conversation cut off well before she could overhear it, but that wasn’t what she was there for.

  “Captain, what ship is that?” she said.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Lyton said. “Just another merchant vessel like us.”