Voyager of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  “It is empty. No one lives in,” the woman said. “Stay. Rest. Then leave.”

  “We will,” Zara said. “Thank you.”

  The woman nodded. “That is wrong,” she said, indicating Ransom with a jerk of her chin, then shut the door behind her. Zara listened to their receding footsteps until the street was silent again—the walls were so thin they’d be able to hear anyone approaching, and probably anyone inside the nearby houses, too.

  “They’re gone,” she said.

  Ransom stretched and stood smoothly, arching his back, bending at the waist to touch his toes, and then extending his arms until his fingertips brushed the ceiling. Then he sat on the bed with his chin in his hand the way he had the night they’d met. Zara gasped. One of his eyes was swollen nearly shut, and there was a long cut along his left cheekbone that had bled heavily and been imperfectly cleaned. “You look awful!”

  “Thank you,” he replied drily. “It looks worse than it is. I couldn’t exactly heal myself without them realizing my inherent magic. If they had…I would have been a prisoner in Manachen for years.”

  Zara didn’t feel a need to respond to that. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

  Ransom gingerly prodded his eye. “I thought I told you to send a negotiator.”

  “The Karitians won’t listen to an official Tremontanan negotiator. So they sent me instead.”

  “That was incredibly dangerous. If you’d made even one mistake, you might have been imprisoned as well.”

  “Well, it wasn’t as if we could let you rot here. Especially once the ambassador found out you’re a De Witt.”

  Ransom groaned and lay back on the bed. “Why did you tell them that?”

  “It was the only way we could get her to take us seriously. I’m sorry if that interfered with your nobly getting yourself beaten in a Karitian prison.”

  “It’s not important. What matters is—actually, I can think of any number of questions, starting with ‘why are we still here?’

  “Well, that’s a long story. How long will it take to heal yourself?”

  “I’ve already healed the internal damage—”

  “Internal damage? Ransom, what did they do to you?”

  He closed his eyes. The puffy one was already looking better. “You don’t want to know the details,” he said, “and I’d rather not talk about it. The important thing is I’m free, and I can finish healing, and you can tell me a nice story while I’m doing it.”

  Zara dragged the chair next to the bed. “Don’t interrupt, because this is complicated,” she said, and told him everything that had happened from the time they arrived at the embassy. She’d already worked out what to say about Jeffrey, and told Ransom only that the King had decided, as long as Zara was going into Manachen, she could complete the task Alfred had been meant to do.

  When she wound down, Ransom was silent. He was silent for so long she began to wonder if he’d fallen asleep, and she was about to prod him when he said, “I don’t care if he is the King, that’s not a task to put on a civilian. No matter how capable she is.”

  “It’s not that dangerous. And I’ve already said I’d do it.”

  “Rowena, you are out of your mind. We need to return to Tammerek right away.”

  “I’m supposed to meet with these people somewhere in the city. They don’t know I’m coming, so I have to hope they’ll be there. Can you help me?”

  “No. I don’t know more than the docks of Manachen. Are you going to make me drag you to the boat?”

  “And make the kind of scene that gets us both thrown into prison?”

  Ransom sat up and swore. “If we get caught, prison will be the least of our worries.”

  “We won’t get caught. Turn around. Or close your eyes. I have to change clothes.”

  “Into what? You’re not carrying anything.” But he turned his back on her.

  Zara stripped off her shirt and trousers and swiftly turned them inside out. Reversed, they were a dull brown that had a few stains on the tunic and were well-worn at the cuffs. She removed the pouch from her neck and handed it to Ransom. “I didn’t read the letters,” she said. “I showed your signet to the ambassador. It was very convincing.”

  “The letters aren’t important. Just a couple from my Uncle Ransom and one from my sister.”

  “Even so, they’re private. You didn’t say everyone thought you were lost.”

  “It wasn’t relevant. It certainly doesn’t change how my family feels about me.”

  Zara ran her hands through her thick hair, tangling it further. “You can probably ask the ambassador not to tell them where you are. Turn around now if you want.”

  Ransom turned around. “That’s quite the transformation. But no one’s going to believe you’re a servant. Not with the way you move.”

  “Karitians don’t look at northern savages if they can help it.”

  “I’m not going to help you.”

  “Then don’t. Wait here, and I’ll be back soon.”

  “You know I can’t let you go alone.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  Ransom cursed again. “Give me ten more minutes, and I’ll be fully healed. Though I’ll still look scruffy.”

  “That might be a benefit.”

  She sat down again and waited in silence, watching him as he sat with his eyes closed and his hands clasped loosely in his lap. He’d asked all the questions, but there was one she was burning to ask him, one she wasn’t sure she wanted an answer to. It was the wrong time to ask, just before they both risked their lives on behalf of their country. And it probably didn’t mean anything, anyway.

  “You kissed me,” she said.

  Ransom smiled, his eyes still closed. “I was wondering when we’d come around to that,” he said.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I was going off to my almost certain death and thought I wasn’t likely to get another chance.”

  “You said it wasn’t goodbye.”

  “It was only almost certain death. I wasn’t sure.”

  “But…why kiss me at all?”

  Ransom said nothing for a long moment. Then he opened his eyes and looked directly at her. “Because you’re the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known,” he said, “and I am deeply attracted to you, and that kiss gave me something to hang onto in the darkness. I don’t care that it’s only been seven days—”

  “Eight days,” Zara said, then covered her mouth in embarrassment at how eager that had sounded.

  “It’s been eight days and already all I can imagine is spending tomorrow with you, and the next day, and the next, just to see what happens. I don’t even care if all we do is argue. I’d rather argue with you than trade smiles with any one of the debutantes my parents threw at me.”

  “I’m old enough to be your grandmother!”

  “My grandmother doesn’t look nearly as good as you. Besides, you said you never think of my age.”

  “Yes, but I sure as hell think of mine! I’m too old for this, Ransom. I—” She let out a deep breath. “It’s easier for me to leave my life behind if I’m not too attached to the people in it. Leaving behind my grandniece’s family…it’s going to hurt for a long time. And I’ve probably got another century or more in me. There’s no way you’re going to live that long.”

  Ransom rose and came to stand in front of her, his eyes fixed on hers in a way that made her for the first time in her life wish she could hide, anything to get away from the depth of emotion in his eyes. “I’m not asking for a lifetime’s promise, Rowena. I’m asking for the chance to find out whether what I feel for you can grow into something more.”

  “And if it does? I’ve come to terms with the way things are. Making friends is worth the pain. Making a deeper connection…” She shook her head. “I don’t want to go through that again, burying someone I love.”

  “You might do that even if you weren’t deathless. That’s how life works.” He took her hand in his. “Don’t you even wan
t to take a chance on happiness?”

  His hand was dry and warm and gripped hers firmly. “We barely know each other. That’s not much to build happiness on.”

  “Every happy couple started out as strangers. We’re just taking that path more quickly, what with the shipwreck and all. It’s been a very full eight days.”

  “’We’? You’re so certain I want what you do?”

  “I am.”

  “You’re impertinent.”

  “And if you didn’t care about me at least a little, you’d have shut me down hard five minutes ago. You see how well I already know you?”

  That quirky, amused smile, his hazel eyes gone dark and serious, left her breathless. She stood and removed her hand from his. “We have to go. We can talk about this later.”

  “Rowena,” Ransom said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m saying I have to focus on what J—what the King wants me to do.”

  “I know. I just—”

  She’d begun to turn away, but let the gentle pressure of his hand bring her back to face him. The smile was gone; his eyes searched her face for something, she had no idea what. “I just,” he repeated, took a step closer, and then his lips were on hers, gentle this time. Instinctively she put her arms around him and drew him closer, and kissed him back.

  It was sweet, and tender, and it had been so, so long since anyone had kissed her she’d forgotten how wonderful it was to be kissed by someone who wanted her, body and soul. He smelled awful, like the prison, but she didn’t care, because his arms were around her and his kisses grew fiercer, more passionate, until she could hardly breathe. He buried his hand in her hair, his fingers tugging at the tangles in short, sharp twinges, and carefully she withdrew from him, with one last kiss, and saw him smile.

  “Don’t tell me you’re indifferent to me after that,” he said.

  She was having trouble catching her breath. “I guess I’m not.”

  He lightly kissed her forehead. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, “because if all our conversations are going to end that way, I want to have another conversation, very soon.”

  “Ransom—”

  “I know. We’ll talk about it later.” He opened the door and bowed. “Where do we go?”

  Zara removed the sketch map from her pocket and turned it around. “We go…south. And hope we find them soon.” She put the map away and touched the Device in her other pocket. Yes, let’s get this over with, she thought. Later can’t come soon enough.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The afternoon sun was, if anything, hotter than it had been at noon, and Zara wiped sweat from her forehead and prayed they’d find Jeffrey’s agents soon. The alley outside their bolt hole was still empty, the cobbles hot beneath the thin leather soles of her sandals, and a scant breeze ruffled the curtains and then was gone, carrying with it the faint smell of the ocean but providing no relief. Manachen lacked all the smells of a northern city, both the pleasant and unpleasant ones, and between that and the emptiness, Zara felt they were walking through, not a real city, but a life-sized model, built to house the dead. She dismissed the feeling irritably. She didn’t need her imagination distracting her from the job at hand.

  The great plaza-street was as sparsely populated as before. Heat waves rose up from the concrete pavers, shimmering like a vast, dry sea, and they were so bright Zara’s eyes watered. She and Ransom walked side by side, Ransom slightly behind to show he would follow her lead. The eerie silence was like a thousand whispering insects humming at the limits of hearing.

  She let her shoulders slump and scuffed her feet along the pavers, trying to exude that same aura of defeat the other Tremontanans she’d seen possessed. Most of those about at this hour were northerners, and now that she knew they were likely working off heavy and unjust fines, her body fizzed with anger. She’d lived too long and in too many places to be chauvinistic about Tremontanan culture, but there were limits to her tolerance, and Manachen had exceeded all of them. Those “servants” might as well be slaves.

  Following Blackwood’s map in memory, she counted streets, then turned right into a neighborhood of four-story buildings that looked to be only one room wide, their glass-paned windows casting bright glints over the street and blinding Zara further. This street was busier than the other, filled with Karitians in their bright robes passing in and out of doors.

  Zara kept her head down, glancing up only often enough to keep from running into anyone. She saw mostly feet and hems, and noted the feet were often dirty and the hems were usually frayed and faded. So Manachen did have a lower class, though she’d wager all of them still felt themselves superior to any northern savage, no matter how wealthy.

  She bumped into someone, glanced up in time to see the Karitian recoil, then begin speaking rapidly in his language. Zara cringed, and hoped it would be enough. Ransom said something in uncharacteristically halting Karitian, then added, “We are sorry.”

  The Karitian glared at Zara again, spat at her feet, and walked away. Ransom put a firm hand on her wrist and murmured, “Be glad it wasn’t your face.”

  “I’ll be so glad when we’re out of here.”

  “Well, we’d better walk more quickly, because we’re drawing attention. I don’t think that map distinguishes the neighborhoods where it’s safe for northerners to go.”

  Zara shuffled faster, counting off streets again. Stupid bigoted Karitians and their stupidly hot city. She was never going to complain about Tremontanan summers again, not that she’d ever really complained. She hoped she wasn’t misremembering the map; she couldn’t exactly pull it out to look at it. More Karitians took to the streets as the sun sank in the western sky until the murmur grew loud enough to make Manachen finally sound like a city.

  She took a left turn and kept going. Their path was taking them through some seedy neighborhoods, limp weeds growing up through cracks in the sidewalk, chips in the stone walls of the dwellings. She smelled food, though she couldn’t identify anything beyond yams and squash cooked in animal fat with cinnamon, and it reminded her she hadn’t eaten dinner. Maybe they’d be back at the embassy in time for supper. Her stomach rumbled, and she sent it a silent promise of food soon.

  “I hope we’re almost there, because I don’t like the way these people are looking at us,” Ransom said.

  Zara took a quick look around. “Three houses down,” she said, “but we should go past and double back, just in case.”

  She’d been told to look for a house with two chairs on the verandah, purple curtains, and some long scratches on the door, as if najabedhi had come calling and left disappointed. The house looked empty, but she could smell yams being cooked inside. She strode past without staring at the house and moved off down the street. The few people who passed ignored them. She walked past three more houses and hesitated. If she turned around and walked back, that might draw attention.

  “This way,” Ransom said, pointing at another narrow alley too small for them to walk side by side. “I think it circles back around to the main street.”

  He led the way down the alley, which was not only deserted but also cluttered with trash. It was the first sign Zara had seen that Manachen wasn’t the model city she’d imagined. It stank of human and animal refuse, and she tried to breathe shallowly through her mouth. It didn’t help. The agents had certainly chosen well when they picked this part of the city. No one would come here who didn’t have to.

  They exited the alley and came past the house a second time. No one was looking at them. Zara guessed they were all going off to their suppers, based on the delicious smells that barely overrode the stink of waste. They climbed the few steps to the verandah, which unlike the rest of the house was solid and didn’t creak underfoot. Keeping her head bent in what she hoped looked like defeat, she knocked on the door, and they waited. No one answered. She knocked on the door again with the same result. She had the feeling someone was watching her, and glanced around, bu
t saw only Ransom, his face still dirty and with traces of blood on his cheek. He shrugged. “Someone’s home,” he said.

  “Let’s go around to the side and see if there’s a window we can look through,” Zara said, and followed Ransom around the corner of the verandah, out of sight of the street. There were no windows on this side of the house and none on the neighboring wall for a nosy neighbor to peek through. The verandah appeared to completely encircle the house. “Back wall?” Zara said.

  Ransom nodded and walked quickly around the back of the house. Zara heard him grunt in surprise and hurried after him. “Did you find—”

  The world went dark and scratchy as a bag went over her head. A hand covered her mouth through the bag, rubbing its rough weave painfully against her mouth. She struggled, but a strong arm pinioned her arms to her side and lifted her off the ground as easily as if she were a sack of flour.

  She kicked out, felt her foot in its inadequate sandal connect with something, and pain shot up her foot and leg. Her captor shook her roughly, dizzying her, then carried her into someplace dark and cool, cooler than outdoors at any rate, and threw her to the ground. She landed hard on her right wrist and cried out, heard a door slam, and then male voices speaking in Karitian, very rapidly. She tried to stand and rough hands grabbed her, yanked her hands behind her back and tied them with rope as scratchy as the bag.

  From nearby, Ransom responded, his voice muffled, and Zara’s panic subsided. She was tied up, he probably was too, but at least they hadn’t been separated. Ransom sounded calm, but there was an edge to his voice that worried Zara. Then he said, “We aren’t servants. We’re from Goudge’s Folly.”

  That silenced the men. Zara waited, debating whether to speak. What should she say? Then one of their captors said, in broken Tremontanese, “You liar. No Tremontanans come from the island.”

  “Are you—” Zara swallowed against the dryness of having the bag jammed into her mouth. “Are you Bull and Lion?” Blackwood had refused to give Zara the agents’ real names, saying they wouldn’t respond to them anyway.