The Cipher

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  “Pull the bell for me,” her mother told Keros. “Sissy, Caroline, and the baby are safe in the castle, Lucy. They will want to see you. Jack is still at the shipyard. They kept him hidden.”

  The maids arrived and carried her mother’s chair out, leaving the three friends alone. Marten prowled restlessly, while Keros dropped onto a chair.

  “Your brother died,” he announced to Marten suddenly. “Apparently it was quite a sudden illness. Unexpected. The majicars took him to Merstone to figure out what happened to him.”

  Marten didn’t answer and Lucy wondered if he would mourn Edgar’s death.

  Again there was silence. Lucy watched Keros from beneath her lashes, trying to decipher his mood. He was unsettled, angry.

  “Are you going to tell me? Or just stew about it like a boy who’s lost his favorite toy?” she asked finally, tilting her head back.

  Keros looked up, his cheeks flushing.

  “By the way, Marten doesn’t think you should watch me bathe anymore. Seems to find it objectionable.”

  He flicked a quick look at Marten, the redness in his cheeks intensifying. Suddenly he stood up. “I’d better be off.”

  But Lucy wasn’t ready to let him escape so easily. She jumped to her feet and stopped him.

  “Tell me what’s bothering you. Something crawled up your chimney and died. What is it?”

  He sighed, looking up at the ceiling, defeated. “Fine. Marten has been the closest thing I have had to family since…he’s the closest thing I have to family. Then you came along. You were like a sister. A really annoying, bratty sister. And Marten—what he did to you made me feel sick. I felt like I lost a brother. Then you were both taken to the Bramble and I remembered what it was like to really lose a brother. And a sister. I wanted to rip my heart out of my chest. Then you turn up. But you’re different. You are the most powerful majicar since Errol Cipher, and Marten seems to be Braken’s son. Not only that, but ridiculously enough, you are lovers. Lovers, in every sense of the word.

  “I have to wonder—how can that be possible when you hated him so much? The only answer I can come to is that you are not the same. Neither of you. The sylveth turned you into someone else. How can you still be my family if you are not you?”

  Lucy didn’t know what to say. Then she held up her hand. “I cut myself again.”

  He blinked, and then laughed. It was almost hysterical. He pulled himself together, wiping the tears from his face.

  “Tell me you are still Lucy and that he is still Marten. Tell me I have not lost you.”

  Lucy narrowed her gaze thoughtfully. “I learned to conjure food so that I don’t have to cook. And Marten…” She smiled. “Didn’t you tell me we all make mistakes? If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that that is a singular truth. And I have discovered in him what you have seen in him. We have changed, Keros. But we are not different. In time, you will see.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go visit Merstone and make sure Edgar is quite as dead as he is supposed to be. Will you join us?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. Oh, and I found this in the throne room. I’m guessing it belongs to you.”

  Keros held out a sylveth ball. Its hard, pearly exterior sheltered a red heart so dark it was nearly black. Lucy took it. The malevolence of the imprisoned Jutras power made her palm itch and sent a burrowing ache up to her shoulder.

  “Yes, I suppose it is. I’ll put it somewhere safe. It wouldn’t do for it to fall in the wrong hands.”

  She slipped the ball into a pocket she conjured in her dress, sealing it in so that it couldn’t fall out.

  “Let’s get going. I don’t suppose it’s polite to dawdle about in the king’s private chambers.”

  Marten and Keros fell in beside her. She hooked an arm through each of theirs and smiled.

  Some days, Lucy thought, deserved to be drowned at birth and everyone sent back to bed with a hot brandy, a box of chocolates, and a warm, energetic companion. Today was distinctly not one of those days.

  * * *

  Read on for a excerpt from Diana Pharaoh Francis’s next novel,

  THE BLACK SHIP

  Coming soon from Roc

  * * *

  Sylbrac rose early. It mattered not that he’d been out late the previous night. Nor that he’d put away the better part of a decanter of brandy all on his own. He disliked slovenly habits and kept a disciplined schedule regardless of his indulgences. He dressed with the aid of his valet and ate a sturdy breakfast of eggs, bacon, buttered potatoes, and strong tea.

  As he ate, Fitch purred in his lap, gleefully kneading sharp claws into his thigh with the smug superiority that came with knowing there would be no retaliation. Sylbrac manfully ignored the pain, knowing that to interfere with the small cat’s fun would only result in a snarling bite or bloody scratch across the back of his hand. Nor was that the worst of it. Fitch would then compound her revenge by shredding Sylbrac’s favorite waistcoat. Or more than one.

  After breakfast, he went for his usual ramble along the headland, leaving Fitch curled up on a cashmere blanket before the fire. He walked quickly, nearly running at times up the steep path and along the edge of the cliffs. He loved the briny smell of the sea, the whisper of the wind in the twisted pines along the shore, and the sibilant siren song of the water.

  The sun was a glowing lemon peel, gilding the black waves with gold. He climbed up onto a jutting tor. The wind cleared the last vestiges of his headache. He breathed deeply, gazing longingly out at the horizon. Frustrated anticipation coiled in his intestines. Chance was over, and riggers were scrambling to get ships ready for sailing. He’d get his assignment within a few days and would lay on deck by the end of Forgiveness at the latest.

  His fingers flexed. It couldn’t come soon enough. His eyes flicked to the Pale. The string of wards protecting Crosspointe from sylveth incursions and the Chance storms hung like fairy lights a quarter of a league offshore. They were entirely green now, the color of new grass, the color of safety. Sylbrac gave a short jerk of his head, roughly rubbing his hand over his jaw. He’d been too long ashore, watching the Pale fade from green to blue to green, waiting to return to the waves. He ached with the need to be free of the suffocating dirt and be out where he belonged.

  The craving was blinding, and for a moment he swayed forward. He caught himself up short, climbing down off the tor.

  He did not return home, but instead walked down into Blacksea.

  The town girdled a forested cove. It was picturesque, with exclusive shops and quaint whitewashed houses made of brick and timber. Large manor houses shouldered through the trees in rising ranks along the low ridge surrounding the town. Below, a dozen coastal ketches lay at anchor in the harbor. They were painted white with crimson striping down the rails and keels. Banners floated from the tops of the masts, and crews bustled on the deck, readying for sail. Smaller pleasure boats filled the marina.

  Sylbrac briskly strode along, paying little attention to the charming storefronts with their white window frames, blue shutters, and gingerbread trim. The air was redolent with wood smoke and baking bread. The scent of pine and salt overlaid it all. A dog nosed along the edge of the road and a pair of cats squabbled beneath a leafless lilac bush.

  Just beyond the Exchange, Sylbrac turned up Petal Avenue. At the end was a boxy redbrick building with white shutters and doors. Over the doors hung a wooden cutlass with the words FOR BRAVERY AND HONOR carved deeply into the wooden blade. A brass plate beside the door said merely TORSBY AND SONS. Sylbrac eagerly went inside.

  He entered into a wide foyer. The walls were painted green with wood wainscotting the color of molasses. The floor was the same wood. Three of the walls were lined with racks containing several hundred swords of every design. The last contained daggers. Torsby was a master sword maker, the finest in Crosspointe. People came from far and wide to purchase his blades, and he was eccentrically choosy about whom he allowed to do so. Sylbrac was privileged to own three
of Torsby’s swords and five of his daggers.

  He went through the archway down a wide hallway and into the spacious gallery beyond. Wide windows overlooking an overgrown garden ran the length of the back wall. The gallery was divided into three sections by low walls topped by brass rails. On the far right and left were two smaller enclosures, each thirty feet across. Within, three circles of different sizes had been painted on the floor in yellow, each divided into quarters. Round racks of wooden and iron practice swords stood in the corners. Beside them were bins of padded and unpadded cross staves, and a variety of targets. On the walls were rows of hooks holding gambesons of varying sizes. Also hanging on the walls were hobbles, wrist, waist, and ankle weights, and an assortment of other training blocks and tackle. Two pails of powdered clamshells hung on posts on either side of the practice areas.

  The central section was far larger than the other two, being four times as wide. It also contained a series of concentric practice circles, but painted in different colors. The place smelled of beeswax, sweat, and leather.

  Two women were sparring in one of the smaller enclosures. They’d been at it a while and were breathing heavily. Sweat gleamed on their cheeks and foreheads. Will, Torsby’s youngest son, poked the women with a staff, calling out instructions in a low growl.

  Sylbrac watched them for a moment. Both were Pilots. He thought they might be Padrika and Shevritel. He couldn’t be sure. All the Pilots’ faces tended to blur together and he didn’t bother learning many of their names. He’d not taken notice of these two before. His lip curled. A new hobbyhorse for them to ride until the next fancy struck.

  “Fair morn, young Thorn.”

  The elder Torsby sat on a bench against the wall, running a soft cloth over the blade lying flat across his thighs. His grizzled hair hung in lank curls to his shoulders, his bald pate covered by a round leather cap. His doughy nose was red, his cheeks rough with stiff gray bristles. He eyed Sylbrac sardonically from beneath his shaggy brows.

  “Been expectin’ ye.”

  Sylbrac’s black brows lifted. “Were you?”

  “Aye. In a foul mood, too. Looks like I was right.”

  “Been reading tea leaves, have you? Does this mean you’ll be putting up a booth at market day and start telling fortunes?”

  “Nonesuch. ’Tis merely that ye be as predictable as Chance. The Ketirvan begins today. Truth be told, I expected ye afore dawn. Grind off a bit of the bitter edge.”

  Sylbrac’s lips pulled flat. At the beginning of each year, the Pilot’s Guild congregated under the guise of conducting the business of the guild. In reality, it was a vast chasm of putrescence with an overabundance of posturing, backbiting, conspiracy, and scheming. Inevitably, he’d end the week with a fiery pain in his gut and an insatiable urge to kill someone. Usually more than one someone. All told, there was nothing Sylbrac dreaded more. Not even being trapped between a gale wind and a knucklebone weir to the lee. At least the latter was a quick death, and far less painful.

  He removed his coat, loosened his collar, and rolled up his sleeves. He stretched his arms over his head and bent from side to side. Torsby continued to polish the blade, chuckling softly.

  “I think your hair needs a trimming,” Sylbrac said, finding little humor in Torsby’s amusement. “Perhaps a little off the eyebrows as well, old man.”

  “Thorn, me boy, ye couldn’t scratch me ass if ye had ten swords and I had but one arm.”

  “In that case, I’d think you’d stop calling me Thorn.”

  “And call ye by that blasphemous name of yourn? I’d be struck dead. ’Sides, it suits ye better. Never met another such pain in the ass as yerself. Prickly bastard. Thorn in the side, thorn in the foot. But that has nothing to do with how ye swing a sword.”

  Sylbrac unbuckled his sword belt and drew his blade, tossing the scabbard down onto the bench before pacing around to the other side of the circle. He scooped up some of the clamshell powder.

  “Shall we see what you have to teach me today, old man?”

  Torsby was spry. In fact he was downright quick and nimble. Within minutes, Sylbrac was sweating. They went back and forth, swords flashing and clanging in rapid staccato. Torsby kept up a running commentary about Sylbrac’s form, jeering at his pupil’s growing breathlessness and stiff, angry moves.

  “Gotta give up that soft livin’, boy. Yer turning into a loblolly. And stop pounding like ye was beating the forge with a hammer. Ye know better. When yer in the circle with a blade in yer hand, yer head can’t be anywhere else.”

  The reproof stung, the more so because it was true. Sylbrac laid in harder, forcing his mind to focus. Soon all thoughts of the upcoming Ketirvan faded like smoke in the wind and the nettles of tension that had been plaguing him since he’d become dirtbound unwound from his muscles.

  “Aye, there ye go,” was Torsby’s only comment.

  They sparred without pausing for well over a glass. At the end, Sylbrac was panting heavily, but relaxed. His body felt fluid. He returned Torsby’s salute, touching his sword to his forehead before stepping out of the practice circle. He dipped a tin cup into the water bucket at the end of the bench and drank deeply. The water was flavored with mint and lemon. He gulped a second cup.

  “You’ll careen yerself if ye keep drinking like that when yer so heated,” Torsby commented, sipping from his own cup.

  “Better a bellyache from this than the Ketirvan.”

  “Ye’ll regret it when ye have both.”

  Sylbrac sighed, dropping the cup into the bucket with a splash. “There’s no way around it. I am hulled. I shall have to attend and sit through the endless hours of talking and saying less than nothing. By Braken, couldn’t they just cut out my eyes and tongue, lop off my legs and toss me to the wolves like the Jutras? It would be infinitely more merciful.”

  “Pilots’ Guild isn’t interested in mercy. Specially to a thorn like you. Ye takin’ the cat again?”

  “Most definitely. Fitch wouldn’t miss a moment.”

  Torsby shook his head. “Ye invite trouble. Surprised ye never been tossed overboard, what with the cat, not to mention that whistling ye insist on.”

  “Can’t sail the Inland Sea without a Pilot. No matter how much bad luck he carries with him. Besides, there’s nothing unlucky about Fitch, and whistling is just music, not a summons for the wights of the world.”

  “Not a sailor on this island as would agree with ye.”

  “They don’t have a choice, do they?”

  “It’s little wonder yer so much alone.”

  Sylbrac stiffened. Bleakness suffused him. It was hardly more than a month since Jordan’s death. Torsby was more right than he knew. His brother’s murder had left him completely alone. No friends, no family who would still claim him—no family that he’d still claim. Torsby was the closest thing to a friend he had. His lip curled in silent scorn. He made no effort at friends and reaped the harvest of his sowing. He had no right to complain. And yet he couldn’t help the ache in his gut.

  He sheathed his sword, buckling on his belt before wiping the sweat from his face with a towel.

  “I choose to be alone. People annoy me.”

  “Do they now? And ye bein’ such a lapdog. Ye’d think they’d cuddle right on up t’ye.”

  Sylbrac laughed. “The sea’s enough for me.”

  “Some men like a tickle and a tumble from time t’time.”

  “As do I. But there’s no need to worry. It’s easy enough to find a skirt to twitch when I want one.”

  “Then it be a fine life ye got. No naggin’ wife, no bawlin’ kiddies, nothin’ at all to disturb yer sleep or aggravate ye. Come home t’peace and everlovin’ quiet.”

  “A fine life,” Sylbrac agreed, but his jaw tightened. Jordan’s death had left him adrift, no matter that he hadn’t seen his brother in years. Now he had nothing, no one. And instead of free, he felt…lost.

  He bid Torsby farewell and returned home to bathe and dress before the Ketirvan. But
he couldn’t shake the memories of Jordan and the attendant recollections of their parents. By the time he reached home he was fuming. He dismissed his valet with a snarl, throwing off his clothing and scrubbing himself vigorously before yanking on his formal clothing.

  He wore a close-fitting black suit made of dosken and silk. It was light and easy to move in and bore no embroidery or embellishments. The jet buttons rose up to close tightly around his throat and he wore no cravat. He pulled on a short padded leather coat—a monkey-jacket like most sailors wore. The arms were ringed with silver bands with rows of sylveth studs circling between. Over it, he wore a sleeveless black robe. It was loose and flowing and shone with a silvery iridescence, like the moon striking the black waves of the Inland Sea. He stamped into his leather boots and tucked a stiletto into the top of the left one, and shoved a dagger into the small of his back. Weapons weren’t allowed into the Ketirvan, but Sylbrac had grown up running wild on the docks. He never went anywhere without a blade of some sort.

  He glanced in the mirror and ran a comb through his brown hair. Despite his efforts, it fell over his forehead in an untidy mop, the back of his hair hanging several inches below his collar. He rubbed at the bristles casting a scruffy shadow along his jaw and grinned crookedly at himself. He’d be damned if he’d shave. He slipped a heavy gold ring on his forefinger. It was shaped like a quadrafoil with a sylveth compass rose in the center. He ignored the matching broach, shoving it to the back of the drawer.

  When he was ready to go, he poured himself a glass of red brandy and gulped it down in a single swig. He poured another and drank that and then set the glass down with a click and went to collect Fitch.

  He settled the little cat on his shoulder. She curled beneath his ear, digging her claws in for balance and wrapping her tail around his neck. Sylbrac scratched her ears and then sighed as he departed for the Ketirvan.

  The guildhall was located on the east side of Blacksea, requiring Sylbrac to cross through town. He took a route along the docks in the hopes that he wouldn’t encounter any other Pilots. The air was sharp and the wind slapped hard. The cold cleared the murk of the brandy from his head, a fact he regretted. Fitch purred, clutching close against his jaw. He reached up and pet her.