Voyager of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  She put it away in her own trouser pocket. She had no compunctions about investigating the thing, but now wasn’t the time. Belinda might wake at any moment, and Zara was sure Alfred intended her to keep the Device secret from everyone, even their friend.

  She was staring southward when Belinda began stirring. “How’s Alfred?” she said, then saw how still he lay and said, “Oh. I…suppose there was never any hope for him, was there?”

  “Not really,” Zara said, then realized how callous that had sounded and added, “He went peacefully. I don’t think he was in any pain at the end.”

  “Should we…bury him at sea?”

  “Maybe. But—isn’t that land, over there?”

  Belinda shaded her eyes and squinted. “I think it is. We could bury him there.”

  Zara picked up her oar. “We have to get there first.”

  They rowed all day and into the evening, taking occasional rests that became more frequent, and longer, as the day wore on. Zara’s hands were almost raw, her magical healing barely keeping pace with the fierce rubbing of the oar handles on her skin. Beside her, Belinda rowed in near silence. Her breath came more heavily each time they took up the oars, but Zara didn’t have time or inclination to coddle her. They needed to reach the shore, and she refused to give up.

  The green haze on the southern horizon turned darker, then more solid, and by the time the sun kissed the horizon, they could see individual trees and a lighter smudge of shore. Zara had to control her eagerness, to keep pace with Belinda, but it was so hard not to make the oars fly. Finally, the bottom of the boat scraped along the sand, and Zara jumped out and dragged the boat higher onto the sand. “Help me,” she said, but Belinda slumped over the oars and lay still. “Belinda, get up.”

  “I need to rest,” she said. “Just give me a minute.”

  There wasn’t a reason to hurry anymore, so Zara sat down on the hard, wet surface of sand, folded her arms across her knees, and let the wavelets lap over her feet. Her boots were already soaked from wading to shore, her trousers were damp in the seams and crotch, and her shirt was stiff with salt water, but she was alive and she intended to remain so. She laughed into her arms. As if she had a choice. Again, she felt no bitterness at the thought.

  “Do you have any idea where we are?” Belinda said.

  Zara scanned the sky. It was going to be a cloudless, starry night, and if she’d learned survival skills at all, she might be able to make use of that. “Not a clue,” she said. “What worries me is not knowing whether we landed west or east of Manachen and Goudge’s Folly. If we guess wrong, we could end up lost in Dineh-Karit for…”

  “I know Captain Proctor was going to approach the shore and then sail west with the current. We couldn’t have been driven that far off course, could we?”

  “I don’t know.” Zara stretched and stood up. “Can you stand?”

  “I think so.” Belinda had to lean heavily on the sides of the boat to get herself upright. “What do we do with Alfred?”

  Zara looked over the shoreline. Soft, low-growing scrub led to trees with fat trunks and branches that drooped under the weight of shiny dark green leaves. It was impossible to see more than a few feet beyond the tree line, and if not for the heavy scent of wet greenery she would have believed it to be a painting the artist hadn’t bothered completing. “I didn’t think about how we’d bury him,” she said. “We should leave him in the boat for now and get some rest. I’m exhausted.”

  “I’m starving. Maybe we should look for food.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to go too far from the shore.”

  “We can keep within sight of it. There has to be food here somewhere.”

  The sand went from being wet and clumping to dry and clinging, sticking to their damp clothes and working its way inside the seams. Zara led the way beneath the drooping branches, holding them carefully aside so they wouldn’t hit Belinda. The cool evening air was muggy but not terribly oppressive—that’s one thing to be grateful for, Zara thought, that and practically no insects. Beneath the trees, it was much darker, the leaves blocking the last of the sunlight, and Zara stopped almost immediately. “What are we looking for?” Belinda said.

  Zara glanced back over her shoulder at the ocean. The myriad noises of birds and other nocturnal animals had cut off as they entered the jungle, which unsettled her. She half expected the ocean to be swallowed up by it. “That,” she said, pointing at a papaya tree growing nearby. The upper fruits were still green, but the lower ones were a nice ripe orange, and Zara’s stomach growled just looking at them. “They’re still a little too high to reach, so we’ll need a rock or a stick or something.”

  Between the two of them, they managed to gather five fruits and carry them back to the boat. It was full dark now, but they used Zara’s small pocketknife to hack the fruits open and dove into the soft flesh, spitting out the bitter seeds. Zara tried not to look at the dark shape huddled in the bottom of the boat. They’d have to do something about him soon; in this tropical climate, his body would begin to rot quickly. Finally, full if not totally satisfied—she couldn’t stop imagining a roast chicken with new potatoes—she scooted back above the tide line and threw the last rind away. “I’m so tired I don’t care where I sleep,” she said.

  Belinda joined her and lay back on the sand. “And tomorrow we can make a plan.”

  “Tomorrow,” Zara said, lying down with her hands pillowing her head. She was asleep in seconds.

  ***

  “Rowena!”

  Zara came instantly awake and sat up, spitting sand out of her mouth. Belinda was shaking her. “The boat’s gone,” she said.

  “What?” Zara tried to rub sand off her hands and succeeded only in spreading it around. The sun was almost entirely above the horizon, and the shore was empty. “We didn’t pull it up far enough.”

  “I guess not. What are we going to do?”

  Other than be grateful not to have to dispose of Alfred’s body? Zara sighed. “We’ll have to go on foot. That won’t be too bad so long as we choose the right direction.”

  “Which is still our biggest problem.”

  Zara thought their biggest problem was keeping Belinda from starving to death, but said only, “I think we have to go west. The Emma Covington was a long way east of Goudge’s Folly, and I can’t imagine it was blown that far off course. The same goes for us.”

  “That’s as good a choice as any. And when we get to Manachen—”

  “I can send word to Falken & Daughter and someone will come for us.” Assuming I can find someone willing to take a message. Nothing about this was going to be simple.

  They gathered more papayas—not many, since they had no way of carrying them except in Belinda’s increasingly ragged jacket—and set off along the tree line. Birds clamored unseen in the tree tops, fighting or courting or possibly just giving each other the news of a couple of two-legged interlopers. As the sun rose higher in the sky, Belinda lagged behind. Zara, still fresh and unwearied, slowed to match her steps. “We should take rests,” she said.

  “All right,” said Belinda, and immediately sat down. Zara sat next to her. “I wish I knew how far we have to go.”

  They’d come around a curve in the shore into a semi-circular bay, its water clear and blue and inviting. Zara thought about taking off her boots and wading in the shallows, but the idea of sand clinging to her feet and then filling her boots was unpleasant. “I guess we’ll know when we get there,” she said.

  “This is hopeless, isn’t it.”

  “Maybe. But I’m not giving up. We have food, we have a direction—”

  “I’ve got nothing, Rowena.”

  Belinda’s voice sounded dull, lifeless. “What are you talking about?” Zara asked.

  “That cargo represented everything I had,” Belinda said. “I had that and a few guilders, and now I don’t have either. I took a chance—” She laughed, a sound as raucous as the birds’ cries. “And to think I was afraid n
o one would want what I had to offer. Pirates weren’t even near the top of my list of worries.”

  “It was a good gamble. The Veriboldan silk, I mean.”

  “I should have stayed in Umberan, let the trade come to me, but I was in competition with all those Eskandelic traders and it just—maybe I was greedy, but it made sense to try for a different market.” She laughed again. “It’s a stupid thing to worry about, given that we could die out here. Though I wish I knew what those pirates were after. They could have taken everything and left us alone, and Gaston and Alfred and Eglantine and all the others would still be alive.”

  The Device in Zara’s pocket weighed her down with its secrets. “I don’t think that captain, that Ghazarian woman, is the kind of person who leaves survivors.”

  “Probably not.” Belinda stood up and brushed herself off. Then she gasped. “People!” she exclaimed, pointing. At the far end of the bay, two human figures had come into sight. Belinda took a few running steps, and Zara lunged, caught her arm and made her stop.

  “We don’t know who they are,” she said. “They’re probably Karitians, and they won’t be happy we’re on their shore. They might not care that we aren’t here voluntarily.”

  “We can’t run, Rowena, they’ve already seen us.”

  “True. But we need to be prepared for the worst.” No sense pointing out they might not survive the worst. “Let’s approach them slowly so we don’t look like a threat.”

  Slowly, they made their way around the bay, walking on the damp sand near the water so their gait would be more even than if they’d stumbled along the loose, dry sand higher up. The first strangers were joined by two more, all four strolling toward them as if they wanted to seem nonthreatening, too. Zara rubbed her palms on her trouser leg, brushing off the rest of the sand. She had no idea what Karitians did to foreigners and didn’t want to find out.

  Then the others were close enough to make out features, and Zara’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “Mister Watson!” she said. “How did you come here?”

  “The same way you did, no doubt, Miss Farrell,” Watson said in that unctuous tone that even under these circumstances annoyed her. “Our boat struck a reef and we were the only ones who managed to swim to shore. You had no other survivors?”

  Zara looked at Watson’s companions. Theodore Jenkins and both the Zakharis. Cantara had a couple of boards strapped to her left forearm and moved as if she were in pain. Arjan had his arm around her in a decidedly non-fraternal manner. “No,” she said. “We were on our way to Manachen.”

  Watson laughed. “I’m afraid you’re going the wrong way, Miss Farrell,” he said. “Manachen is to the east of us.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “I’ve been a sailor for fifteen years. Of course I’m sure. But you shouldn’t feel embarrassed at being wrong. Anyone not trained in the science of astronomy would have done the same.”

  Zara said nothing. She was sure her guess was right—but he did have the experience… She flushed, angry at herself for letting him get to her, and wanted to punch him in the face when his smile broadened. How dare he condescend to her!

  “We have food, if you’re hungry,” Watson continued. He sounded as if he was rescuing them from the brink of starvation. As if, being lost, they were no doubt incapable of feeding themselves as well.

  “Thank you, but we’ve collected food,” Zara said, and took pleasure in the look of irritation that flitted across his face. She saw Theodore’s eyes widen as he saw the papayas Belinda was carrying. “Would you like some?”

  “We—” Watson began, but Theodore already had his hand outstretched for a fruit, and Arjan wasn’t far behind him. Arjan broke it open and helped Cantara eat; she made a face and spat out a half-bitten seed.

  “Well, since we’re all going to travel together now—or did you want to strike out on your own in the wrong direction, Miss Farrell?” Watson said with a mocking smile. “We might as well share what we’ve gathered.” He took his papaya nonchalantly, but ate it as eagerly as any of the others. What had they eaten yesterday, that they were so hungry now?

  “It makes sense for us to travel together,” Zara said. “Don’t you agree, Belinda?”

  “Of course.” Belinda offered half a papaya to Zara, who reflected it might as well be a very early dinnertime since they were all eating anyway.

  She took a bite and gazed idly into the jungle. How long would it take for them to grow sick of papaya? For that matter, could eating nothing but papaya make them genuinely ill? Poison, whether actual venom or the tiny organisms that lived in improperly prepared food, did make her sick for a while, but couldn’t kill her—at least, none of the poisons she’d had access to when she was trying to fake her death had done more than inconvenience her. Even so, she didn’t relish the idea of being ill even for a short time, and none of her companions had her advantages. Maybe, with more of them working together, they could range farther into the jungle and look for other kinds of food.

  “Let’s move on, then,” Watson said, tossing away the rind of his papaya.

  “I think Cantara needs more of a rest,” Zara said. She’d mostly meant to nettle Watson, but Cantara was sweating and did look as if she were having trouble standing.

  “Better for Miss Zakhari to reach civilization and receive proper medical care,” Watson said.

  “And there’s no sense us reaching civilization with her more seriously injured,” Zara snapped back. “We can wait a few more minutes.”

  Watson pinched his lips tight shut. “Very well,” he said finally, making himself sound like the King of Tremontane granting a poor supplicant a boon. Not that Jeffrey North was ever so supercilious as this man. Zara went to Arjan’s side, where he was helping Cantara sit. “I thank,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” Zara said, at the last minute deciding to speak Tremontanese rather than Eskandelic. They’d probably reached the point where the Zakharis’ secrets didn’t matter anymore, but revealing them at the tactically strong moment, whatever that might be, appealed to Zara. She smiled at Cantara, who smiled weakly back. Yes, no sense embarrassing the young couple in front of Watson.

  It was barely five minutes before Watson said, “That’s long enough. We’re moving on.” He didn’t wait for Arjan to help Cantara up, just strode away across the sand. Zara glared at his back. He might know where Manachen was, but he’d lied about feeding the others—or at least exaggerated how filling that food was—and he had no concern for the well-being of an injured woman. Zara was certain he would lead them into disaster. She fell to the rear of their group and examined them all as she walked. None of them were capable of challenging Watson, if that became necessary—none but she. You’re imagining things, she told herself, you dislike him and you’re looking for reasons not to follow where he leads. But she couldn’t help thinking she was making a mistake.

  Chapter Four

  The heat of the sun and the muggy air slowed their pace, though Watson insisted on leading the way and walked too rapidly for anyone else to keep up. The humid air drained Zara of whatever energy her inherent magic might otherwise have provided, which meant the others, except for Zakhari Arjan, were barely able to keep up the pace, and Arjan’s attention was devoted to Cantara. The young woman’s dark complexion was gray, and her eyes were glassy with pain or fever—please, dear heaven, not fever.

  Finally Zara, glaring at Watson’s distant back, declared loudly, “I need a rest,” and sat down on the crumbling, damp sand. Belinda immediately followed her, and Arjan helped Cantara down and sat so she could lean against him. Theodore hesitated, looking in Watson’s direction, then at Zara, and finally chose to sit some distance from the rest of them as if trying to find a middle ground.

  Watson went another ten or fifteen feet before turning around. “We don’t have time to rest,” he said. He’d clearly been overexerting himself to spite Zara; his face was red and he was sweating, not that sweating did any good in this climate. “We need
to reach Manachen as soon as possible so we can return to civilization.”

  “Some of us will collapse if we keep up the pace you’re setting,” Zara said. “A fifteen-minute rest and a shorter stride is what we need.”

  “If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it, Miss Farrell.” Watson came back to stand over Zara, looming like one of the trees. He reminded her of a bantam rooster her friend Sophie had owned, back when Zara lived in Sterris, and the image was so amusing she had trouble not smiling. Instead, she gave him her coldest gaze and remained where she was. It was easy to intimidate when you had the higher ground, but Zara had never been one to take the easy route.

  “Mister Watson,” she said in a low voice that forced him to lean over to hear her, “your physical capabilities are admirable, but not everyone shares them. You might consider Mister Zakhari’s probable reaction if his sister is hurt further. It won’t make you look good if it comes to a fight between the two of you.”

  Watson glanced over at Arjan, who wasn’t paying them any attention. Arjan was well-muscled, not like a laborer, but like someone who’d been trained to fight—another evidence he wasn’t who he claimed to be—and he was a few inches taller and much broader in the shoulders than Watson. The former first mate threw back his shoulders and puffed out his chest, almost certainly unconsciously, and braced himself as if Arjan had already begun to throw a punch. “Mister Zakhari isn’t the one challenging my authority,” he said, matching Zara’s low tones.

  “I have no interest in taking on your responsibilities,” Zara lied, “but even someone as competent as you can benefit from good advice.”

  “I question whether your advice is good,” Watson said, and walked away, leaving Zara fuming on the wet sand. Bastard. Just because she couldn’t navigate by the stars…! She stood up, brushing off her trousers, and went to help Belinda stand. Belinda’s rosy complexion was red, and she was breathing heavily.