Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Shut up, Grady,” Wyatt told him. “Talk like that can get you hanged.”

  “Okay, okay,” Grady said, holding up his palms. “Just letting you know, that’s all.” He got up and headed for his own hammock, casting several glances back over his shoulder, until he disappeared into the forest of swinging men.

  “What was that all about?” Hadrian asked, hooking a thumb toward Grady’s retreating figure.

  “I don’t know,” Wyatt replied. “There’s always one sailor on board any ship looking for a mutiny. Grady seems to be the Emerald Storm’s. Ever since he signed on, he’s been thinking there’s a conspiracy going on—mostly because he wants there to be, I think. He has issues with authority, Grady does.” Wyatt started gathering up the scattered deck of cards into a pile. “So, what’s your story?”

  “How do you mean?” Hadrian asked.

  “Why are you and Royce here? I stuck my neck out getting you on board. I think I’ve a right to know why.”

  “I thought you got us aboard to pay off a debt.”

  “True, but I’m still curious why you wanted on the Storm in the first place.”

  “We’re looking for a safer line of work and thought we’d try sailing,” Hadrian offered. Wyatt’s face showed he was not buying it. “We’re on a job, but I can’t tell you more than that.”

  “Does it have to do with the secret cargo?”

  Hadrian blinked. “It’s possible. What is the secret cargo?”

  “Weapons. Steel swords, heavy shields, imperial-made crossbows, armor—enough to outfit a good-sized army. It came aboard at the last minute, hauled up in the middle of the night just before we sailed.”

  “Interesting,” Hadrian mused. “Any idea where we’re headed?”

  “Nope, but that’s not unusual. Captains usually keep that information to themselves, and Captain Seward doesn’t even share that with me … and I’m the quartermaster.”

  “Quartermaster? I thought you were the helmsman.”

  “I’m guessing you’ve served in armies, haven’t you?”

  “A few, and the quartermaster is the supply officer.”

  “But on the sea, the quartermaster steers the ship, and as I mentioned, the captain hasn’t even told me where we are going.” Wyatt shuffled the cards absently. “So, you don’t know where the ship is going, and you weren’t aware of the cargo. This job didn’t come with much in the way of information, did it?”

  “What about you?” Hadrian turned the tables. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could say I was working for a living, and for me it would actually make sense, but like you, I’m looking for answers.”

  “To what?”

  “To where my daughter is.” Wyatt paused a moment, his eyes glancing at the candle. “Allie was taken a week ago. I was out finding work, and while I was gone, the Imps grabbed her.”

  “Grabbed her? Why?”

  Wyatt lowered his voice. “Allie is part elven, and the New Empire is not partial to their kind. Under a new law, anyone with even a drop of elf blood is subject to arrest. They’ve been rounding them up and putting them on ships, but no one can tell me where they’ve taken them. So here I am.”

  “But what makes you think this ship will go to the same place?”

  “I take it you haven’t ventured down to the waist hold yet?” He paused a second, then added, “That’s the bottom of the ship, below the waterline. Ship stores are there, as well as livestock like goats, chickens, and cows. Sailors on report get the duty to pump the bilge. It’s a miserable job on account of the manure mixing with the seawater that leaks in. It’s also where—right now—more than a hundred elves are chained up in an area half this size.”

  Hadrian nodded with a grimace at the thought.

  “You and Royce gave me a break once because of my daughter. Why was that?”

  “That was Royce’s call. You need to take that up with him. Although I wouldn’t do it for a while. He’s sicker than I am. I’ve never seen him so miserable, and this sea business is making him irritable. Well, more irritable than usual.”

  Wyatt nodded. “My daughter’s the same way on water. Pitiful little thing, she’s like a cat on a piece of driftwood. It takes her forever to get accustomed to the rocking.” He paused a moment, looking at the candle.

  “I’m sure you’ll find her, don’t worry.” Hadrian glanced at the mass of men around him and lowered his voice to a whisper. “The job we’re on is important, and we can’t afford to be distracted, but if the situation presents itself, we’ll help any way we can. Something tells me I won’t have much trouble convincing Royce.”

  Hadrian felt the nausea rising in his stomach once more. His face must have betrayed his misery.

  “Don’t worry. Seasickness usually only lasts three days,” Wyatt assured him as he put the cards in his breast pocket. “After that, both of you will be fine.”

  “If we can stay on board that long. I don’t know anything about being a ship’s cook.”

  Wyatt smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you covered. Poe will do most of the work. I know he looks young, but he’ll surprise you.”

  “So how is it that I get an assistant?”

  “As ship’s cook, you rank as a petty officer. Don’t get all excited, though. You’re still under the boatswains and their mates, but it does grant you the services of Ordinary Seaman Poe. It also exempts you from the watches. That means so long as the ship’s meals are on schedule, the rest of your time is your own. What you need to know is that breakfast is served promptly at the first bell of the forewatch.” Wyatt paused. “That’s the first time you’ll hear a single bell toll after eight bells is rung just after the sun breaks above the horizon.

  “So have Poe light the galley fires shortly after middle watch. He’ll know when that is. Tell him to make skillygalee—that’s oatmeal gruel. Don’t forget biscuits. Biscuits get served at every meal. At eight bells, the men are piped to breakfast. Each mess will send someone to you with a messkid, sorta like a wooden bucket. Your job will be to dish out the food. Have Poe make some tea as well. The men will drink beer and rum at dinner and supper, but not at breakfast, and no one on board will risk drinking straight water.”

  “Risk?”

  “Water sits in barrels for months, or years if a ship is on a long voyage. It gets rancid. Tea and coffee are okay ’cause they’re boiled and have a little flavor. Coffee is expensive, though, and reserved for the officers. The crew and the midshipmen eat first. After that, Basil, the officers’ cook, will arrive to make meals for the lieutenants and captain. Just stay out of his way.

  “For dinner make boiled pork. Have Poe start boiling it right after Basil leaves. The salted meat will throw off a thick layer of fat. Half of that goes to the top captains to grease the rigging. The other half you can keep. You can sell it to tallow merchants at the next port for a bit of coin, but don’t give it to the men. It will make you popular if you do, but it can also give them scurvy, and the captain won’t like it. Have Poe boil some vegetables and serve them together as a stew, and don’t forget the biscuits.”

  “So I tell Poe what to make and dish it out, but I don’t actually do any cooking?”

  Wyatt smiled. “That’s the benefit of being a petty officer. Sadly, however, you only get a seaman’s rate of pay. For supper, just serve what’s left over from dinner, grog, and, of course, biscuits. After that, have Poe clean up, and like I said, the rest of the day is open to you. Sound easy?”

  “Maybe, if I could stand straight and keep my stomach from doing backflips.”

  “Listen to Poe. He’ll take good care of you. Now you’d best get back in your hammock. Trust me, it helps. Oh, and just so you know, you would have been wrong.”

  “About what?” Hadrian asked.

  “About thinking sailing was a safer line of work.”

  It was still dark when the captain called, “All hands!”

  A cold wind had risen, and in the dark hours before dawn, a light rain sp
rayed the deck, adding a wet chill to the seasick misery that had already deprived Hadrian of most of his sleep. During the night, the Emerald Storm had passed by the Isle of Niel and now approached the Point of Man. The point was a treacherous headland shoal that marked the end of Avryn Bay and the start of the Sharon Sea. In the dark, it was difficult to see the shoal, but the sound was unmistakable. From somewhere ahead there came the rhythmic, thundering boom of waves crashing against the point.

  The below decks emptied as the boatswain and his mates roused all the men from both watches with their starter ropes, driving them up to stations.

  “Bring her about!” shouted the captain from his perch on the quarterdeck. The dignified figure of Lieutenant Bishop echoed the order, which Mr. Temple repeated.

  “Helm-a-lee!” shouted the captain. Once more the order echoed across the decks. Wyatt spun the ship’s great wheel.

  “Tacks and sheets!” Lieutenant Bishop barked to the crew.

  At the mizzen, main, and foremasts the other lieutenants shouted more orders, which the boatswains reinforced.

  Hadrian stood on the main deck in the dark and the drizzling rain, unsure of his station or even if he had one. He was a cook, after all, but it seemed even a cook was expected to lend a hand on deck when necessary. He still felt ill, but Royce appeared worse. Hadrian watched as Boatswain Bristol, a big burly man, ordered him up the ropes, waving his short whip menacingly. Drained of color, Royce’s face and hands stood out pale in the dark. His eyes were unfocused and empty. He reluctantly moved up the mainmast’s ratlines, but he did not display any of the acrobatics of the previous day. Instead, he crawled miserably and hesitated partway up. He hovered in the wet rigging as if he might fall. From below, Bristol cursed at him until, at last, he moved upward once more. Hadrian imagined that the higher into the rigging Royce went, the more pronounced the sway of the ship would be. Between that, the slippery wet ropes, and the cold wind-driven rain, he did not envy his friend.

  Several men were working the ropes that controlled the direction of the sails, but others, like him, remained idle, waiting in lines, which the boatswains formed. There was a tension evident in the silence of the crew. The booming of the headlands grew louder and closer, sounding like the pounding of a giant’s hammer or the heartbeat of a god. They seemed to be flying blindly into the maw of some enormous unseen beast that would swallow them whole. The reality, Hadrian imagined, would not be much different should they come too close to the shoal.

  Anticipating something, all eyes watched the figure of Captain Seward. Hadrian could tell by the feel of the wind and the direction of the rain that the ship was turning. The sails, once full and taut, began to flutter and collapsed as the bow crossed over into the face of the wind.

  “Mains’l haul!” the captain suddenly shouted, and the crew cast off the bowlines and braces.

  Seeing the movements, Hadrian realized the strategy. They were attempting a windward tack around the dangerous point, which meant the wind would be blowing the ship’s hull toward the treacherous rocks even as they struggled to reset the sails to catch the wind from the other side. The danger came from the lack of maneuverability caused by empty sails during the tack. Without the wind driving the ship, the rudder could not push against the water and turn it. If the ship could not come about fully, it would not be able to catch the wind again, and it would drift into the shoal, which would shatter the timbered hull like an eggshell and cast the cargo and crew into a dark, angry sea.

  Hadrian took hold of the rope in his line and, along with several others, pulled the yards round, repositioning the sails to catch the wind as soon as they were able. The rope was slick, and the wind jerked the coil so roughly that it took the whole line to pull the yards safely into position.

  There was another deafening boom, and a burst of white spray shot skyward as the breaking water exploded over the port bow. The vessel was turning fast now, pulling away from the foam, struggling to get clear. No sooner had the bow cleared the wind than he heard the captain order: “Now! Meet her! Hard over!”

  His voice was nearly lost as another powerful wave rammed the rocks just beside them, throwing the Emerald Storm’s bow upward with a rough lurch that staggered them all. On the quarterdeck, Wyatt followed the order, spinning the wheel back, checking the swing before the ship could turn too far and lose its stern in the rocks.

  Overhead, Hadrian heard a scream.

  Looking up, he saw the figure of a man fall from the mainsail rigging. His body landed a dozen steps away with a sickening thud. All eyes looked at the prone figure lying like a dark stain on the deck, but none dared move from their stations. Hadrian strained to see who it was. The man lay facedown, and in the dim light it was difficult to tell anything.

  Is that Royce?

  Normally he would never have questioned his friend’s climbing skills, but with his sickness, the motion of the ship, and his inexperience, it was possible he could have slipped.

  “Haul off all!” Mr. Temple shouted, ignoring the fallen man. The crew pulled on the sheets and braces, and once more captured the wind. The sails bloomed full, and Hadrian felt the lurch under his feet as the ship burst forward once more, heaving into the waves, now steering out to the open sea.

  “Dr. Levy on deck!” Bishop shouted.

  Hadrian rushed over the instant he could, but stopped short on seeing the tattoo of the mermaid on the dead man’s forearm.

  “It’s Edgar Drew, sir. He’s dead, sir!” Bristol shouted to the quarterdeck as he knelt next to the fallen man.

  Several sailors gathered around the body, glancing upward at the mainsail shrouds, until the boatswain’s mates took them to task. Hadrian thought he could see Royce up near the top yard, but in the dark he could not be sure. Still, he must have been close by when Drew fell.

  The boatswain broke up the crowd and Hadrian, once more unsure of his duty, stood idle. The first light of dawn arrived, revealing a dull gray sky above a dull gray sea that lurched and rolled like a terrible dark beast.

  “Cook!” a voice barked sharply.

  Hadrian turned to see a young boy who was not much older than Poe but wearing the jacket and braid of an officer. He stood with a firm-set jaw and a posture so stiff he seemed made of wood. His cheeks were flushed red with the cool night air, and rainwater ran off the end of his nose.

  “Aye, sir?” Hadrian replied, taking a guess it would be the right response.

  “We are securing from all hands. You’re free to fire the stove and get the meal ready.”

  Not knowing anything better to say, Hadrian replied, “Aye, aye.” He turned to head for the galley.

  “Cook!” the boy-officer snapped disapprovingly.

  Hadrian pivoted as sharply as he could, recalling some of his military training. “Aye, sir?” he responded once more, feeling a bit stupid at his limited vocabulary.

  “You neglected to salute me,” he said hotly. “I’m putting you on report. What’s your name?”

  “Hadrian, sir. Blackwater, sir.”

  “I’ll have the respect of you men even if I must flog you to obtain it! Do you understand? Now, let’s see that salute.”

  Hadrian imitated the salute he had seen others perform by placing his knuckles to his forehead.

  “That’s better, seaman. Don’t let it happen again.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  It felt good to get down out of the rain and wind, and Poe met him on the way to the galley. The boy knew his way around the kitchen well, which was no doubt why Wyatt had suggested him. They fired up the stove and Hadrian watched Poe go to work cooking the morning oatmeal, adding butter and brown sugar in proper amounts and asking Hadrian to taste test it. Despite its name, the skillygalee was surprisingly good. Hadrian could not say the same about the biscuits, which were rock hard. Poe had not made them. He had merely fetched the round stones from the bread room, where boxes of them were stored. Hadrian’s years of soldiering had made him familiar with hardtack, as they were k
nown on land. The ubiquitous biscuits lasted forever but were never very filling. They were so hard that you had to soften them in tea or soup before eating them.

  With the meal made, stewards from the mess arrived to gather their shares and carry them below.

  Hadrian entered the berth deck, helping the mess steward carry the last of the servings. “Bloody show-off couldn’t even make it up the lines,” Jacob Derning was saying loudly. The men of the tops, and the petty officers, sat together at the tables as befitted their status on board, while others lay scattered with their copper plates amid the sacks and chests. Jacob looked like he was holding court at the center table. All eyes were on him as he spoke with grand gestures. On his head he wore a bright blue kerchief, as did everyone on the foretop crew.

  “It’s a different story with him when the sea’s heaving and the lines are wet,” Jacob went on. “You don’t see him prancing then.”

  “He looked scared to me,” Bristol the boatswain added. “Thought I was gonna have to go up and wallop him good to get him going again.”

  “Royce was fine,” said a thin, gangly fellow with a white kerchief tied over his head and a thick blond walrus mustache. Hadrian did not know his name but recognized him as the captain of the maintop. “Just seasick, that’s all. Once he was aloft, he reefed the tops’l just fine, albeit a bit oddly.”

  “Make excuses for him all ya want, Dime,” Jacob told him, pointing a finger his way, “but he’s a queer one, he is, and I find it more than a little dodgy that his first day aloft finds his fellow mate falling to his death.”

  “You suggesting Royce killed Drew?” Dime asked.

  “I ain’t saying nuttin’, just think it’s odd is all. Of course, you’d know better what went on up there, wouldn’t you, Dime?”

  “I didn’t see it. Bernie was with him on the tops’l yard when he fell. He says Drew just got careless. I’ve seen it before. Fools like him skylarking in the sheets. Bernie says he was trying to walk the yard when the ship lurched ’cause of that burst from the shoal. He lost his footing. Bernie tried to grab him as he hung on to the yard, but the wetness made him slip off.”