by Alex Lidell
Chapter 15
My heart races. The gambit of painful need and paralyzing fear opens before me. It’s as though I am about to shove my face into the barrel of a loaded gun in hopes of resolving a malfunction without the resolution in turn taking off my head. I shift on my perch. Test my tether. Chew my lower lip. I have to do it. I have to do something, and this is the best I can conjure.
I close my eyes and allow myself to feel that magic inside me that keeps shouting come come come to the wind. A final breath, and I stop fighting down the magic, letting it play as it wishes.
That’s all it takes.
The rush of air hits me like a pistol shot. I choke, writhing and struggling against the current. The air beats against my skin, flows inside where it can. Eyes, nose, mouth, ears. My windpipe and lungs threaten to rip open. I try to push the magic down again, but it won’t listen, like a dog kept too long in a cage. More, more, more. My magic craves the element that’s tearing my body apart. Storms. Panic floods my veins. This is how Gifted die every day, with their magic calling an element until it kills them. Fire callers burn to death. Metal callers impale their guts and hearts and eyes with accidently attracted knives. Me, I’ll die with the wind ripping my lungs.
I’m scared.
How in the bloody hell did Clay live through this?
That thought seems vitally important, though it’s hard to think through the pain. Clay. Clay lived. How? I think of him playing with the metal balls. Clay doesn’t just attract metal toward him, he repels it too. Back and forth. A magnet. A balance. Control.
How do I control a flow of air?
I stare at the sails billowing all around me and know the answer. Or an answer. A sail pointed directly into the wind is ineffective, but one angled to shape the wind’s course just so can move ships.
Except I don’t know how to do any of that. The only two actions I’ve tried with my magic have been suppressing it completely and letting it loose. Off and on. Sail lowered, sail raised.
So, I start there. I imagine my body is a sail and push down on the magic on just one side of my body. The left.
The release is as sudden as the pop of a filling canvas. One moment, the wind is trying to blow me up like a balloon, and then next it’s rushing in from the right to fill the void on my left.
My lungs draw breath, drinking from the fountain instead of choking on the flow. My vision clears. The air that my magic calls flows across my body instead of into it. And…and it feels good, to let the magic out, to use it up. Like emptying an overfull bladder, but a hundred times more powerful. A thousand times.
Even as I construct the puzzle of what’s happening to me, I feel the wind rising. The magic wants to be free faster, all at once, now now now. The wind I channel whips itself toward a gale. Storms and hail. I might be the equivalent of a magical sail that creates its own wind, but I’m also on a mast of a real sailing ship with real sails set. And I’m going to capsize us if I keep at it.
I scramble to rein the magic back in, hoping I’ve burned off enough of it to make the shutdown possible. It’s a messy affair, and I manage to nearly choke myself before I succeed in suppressing the remnants of my magic into inaction. Once I can breathe again, I collapse against the mast in utter exhaustion.
That was neither pretty nor controlled. But I lived. Living counts for something.
Several bells sound before I can sit up again. I check my tether, relieved to find it sound. That little piece of line connecting me to the mast saved me from toppling to the deck. I reach out to grip the shrouds and whimper. I ache. And while I’m done air-calling for the day, I know I will have to perform this exercise again sometime soon. The very thought makes me nauseous. I rub my hands over my face and watch the waves.
Sobbing is the first noise to shake me from my trance. A childish sobbing, too clear to be far off.
I lean back and look up the mast. Someone is up there, on the lookout platform above me.
I untie my tether and, gripping the ropes, haul myself into the shrouds. The climb feels good despite my muscles’ protests. Captain Fey little tolerated his officers engaging in childish games aloft, and I’ve missed scampering through the ratlines, the exhilaration of shifting ropes, the excitement of soaring high above the world and sea.
I reach the next lookout platform and climb over the edge into the crow’s nest. There is an entry opening by the mast, but the sailor way is to scale the rail, leaning backward for a few moments over the roaring sea.
The boy on the platform is a marine, a young lad who sits at my mess table. He has a glass swung over his shoulder like a musket. Scrubbing his sleeve over his red face, the boy glares at me with all the friendliness of a savage dog. “What do you want?”
I sit beside him and tie myself in. The circular platform wraps around the mast, extending a pace in all directions.
His eyes fix on the line, and he licks his lips. His own hands grip the stays so hard, they tremble. “Tying in is for cowards,” he informs me. “No seaman ties himself in.”
He is half right. Before today, I’d tether in only if I wished to read or nap in the rigging, neither of which had been permitted after my middie days. But the lack of tether is a matter of logistics—little can be accomplished aloft on a leash. I shrug and lean back on my hands.
I wager Catsper had ordered the boy up here now, in calm weather, to accustom the lad to heights. Only time will alleviate the fear, but the presence of another sailor close by often helps.
The boy squints at me. The tension in his face is easing, and his fingers relax their grip. “You are Nile,” he informs me. “You sit in my mess.”
“Thank you for the report.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m Penn.”
“Deck there!” the foremast lookout shouts, interrupting what passes for conversation between Penn and me. “Sail ho!”
I jerk my attention to the sea. This has to be Rima’s reason for lingering. “May I borrow your glass?” I ask Penn and feel the metal slip into my hand. I train the glass on the ship. Who are you? I wonder.
A merchantman by her size, albeit one with an unfamiliar design. A League Merchant flag runs up her mast. Then another signal to give her name, Hope. I look down to the deck. Rima is relaxed. I am not. I swing the glass back to Hope. Father had started drilling Clay and me on reading ships’ hulls, rigging, and handling before he let us step foot on a frigate. I know ships. I remember them. And despite having spent years in the largest trading ports of the six kingdoms, I know I have never laid eyes on the merchant ship Hope before.
This is not terribly strange in itself as there are many ships in the League. But what bothers me is that I cannot even place Hope’s origins. Possibly the merchant is a Tirik prize, though she varies from their typical build as well. I lean forward, studying the curious little vessel. “We’ve a visitor, it appears,” I say to Penn. “The LM Hope.”
“The Hope?” Penn is little impressed. “She’s attached herself to the past half dozen of our convoys.”
I lower my glass, suddenly comprehending Rima’s heist. Merchants pay a fee to the League Admiralty for a naval escort. If the Hope attaches herself to established convoys, she is likely paying fees to Captain Rima’s pocket directly. No wonder Rima hurried to the rendezvous point but then, not seeing Hope among the waiting vessels, found reasons to wait.
It’s disgusting. By taking Hope’s escort fees for himself, Rima is not just ignoring League law and robbing the Joint Fleet Admiralty of the fees it needs to maintain the fleet, Rima is also endangering the other ships. A convoy of three ships can move faster and be protected more easily than a convoy of four.
I examine our merchants. The Siren and Maiden are decent ships, Biron built and sturdy. The third, Solace, I peg as a child of an Eflian shipyard, with maneuverability sacrificed for greater hauling space. Those three are our true charges and should take priority. I know they won’t.
Hope sails closer and lowers a boat. I wager it’s her skipper
coming over to give his golden apologies to Rima for the tardiness.
Beside me, Penn draws a sharp breath. I think he is looking down at the tiny deck beneath us, but no. His gaze is fixed on two figures making their way across the rigging. Johina and Mic. The men speak as they climb, the wind carrying bits of the sound.
“—rat’s up there,” Johina’s voice reaches Penn and me.
“I dunno.”
“… ordered him up two bells past.” Johina climbs a few yards closer. “…little shit… near got you flayed. …learn to keep his trap shut.
I raise my brow questioningly at Penn.
“I was the one to report Mic to Mr. Kederic,” the boy whispers, his body tense. There is neither pride nor shame in the confession. A simple statement of fact.
Grunting breaths reach us from below. The shaved diamond and crescent cuts approach our perch. A few heartbeats later, the Eflians come up onto the platform, climbing on the outside of the railing like I had. Johina chuckles at my tether. “Get off, fish bait. I’ve some chores for the boy, and we’ll need the space.”
I pull my knot loose and step between Penn and the Eflians. My shoulders settle into a solid posture trained into me as an officer on the quarterdeck. I understand the Eflians’ grievance. The lower decks despise rats, even ones whose job it is to maintain order. But no one is going to be addressing the issue seventy feet above the sea. Not on my watch. “Penn, return to deck.”
Johina’s tattooed face darkens. “You deaf, girl?” He says girl with the same foulness Captain Rima had.
“We are both leaving. Penn.” I jerk my eyes toward the lad. True to his training, the young marine knows authority when he sees it and moves toward the shrouds. I keep myself between him and the Eflians. They’d have to leap around me to grab Penn, and no sailor plays such tricks in the rigging.
“Fish bait’s got a mouth,” Mic says pointedly.
I wait for Penn to get a couple of feet clearance, then grab onto the shrouds myself. I have nothing to prove, not to these two.
My foot is about to find its hold when Johina’s hand snatches forward and closes hard around my wrist.
Chapter 16
Shock spurs my heart. I try to jerk my hand free, but my arm is little match for Johina’s strength as he pulls me right back onto the lookout platform.
He grins, showing yellow teeth that match his eyes.
“What in the bloody waves are you doing?” I demand.
Johina bends my wrist painfully, forcing me to my knees beside the mast. “Why, I’m doing you a great favor, fish bait.” His face hovers inches from mine, and the reek of his breath fills my nostrils. “I shall teach you to do as you’re told and to show respect to our captain. Don’t think I was blind to your insolence.”
I have a moment to digest the threat before Johina’s fist sinks into my gut.
I rock back, unable to breath. My eyes widen. I’ve never been struck with a fist before, never even fathomed a fight with my own crew. For waves’ sake, a sailor would face a court-martial for striking an officer. But you aren’t an officer, remember?
As if to drive home my thoughts, Mic’s thick arms grab me from behind. They snake under my armpits and interlock behind my neck. The hold stretches my shoulders and forces my head forward.
I start flailing, pulling with all my strength against the iron hold. Which is stupid to do on a bloody platform that’s barely wide enough to hold all three of us. A foot in the wrong direction and I will fall from the crow’s nest and splatter on deck. I open my mouth to scream, but a calloused palm decamps from my neck and clamps over my mouth instead.
Johina backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways, a trickle of burning blood filling my mouth.
The reality of my predicament finally sinks into my thick skull, and I stomp my heel into Mic’s bare foot. He curses and loosens the hold on my shoulder long enough for me to buck my head back, hard. There is a satisfying crunch as the back of my skull connects with something breakable and a slew of curses fills my ears.
Johina’s fist sinking into my gut wipes all that satisfaction away in an eye blink. I double over, unable to breathe, and receive another stomach blow for my efforts. Mic regains his hold, pinning my arms behind me.
I raise my head, the only body part I can move just now, and spit into Johina’s face.
He elbows me in mine. And then it’s Mic’s turn for a swing.
By the time Penn returns with Catsper in tow, the Eflians have finished their instruction. I am curled up alone on the platform, the right side of my face burning and my eye already swelling closed. My pride flames as fiercely as my head.
“Were you born stupid or is it the height?” Catsper inquires coming over the rail.
“Both.” Talking hurts.
“Get down, Ash.”
I uncurl slowly, biting my lip to keep from gasping. My limbs move because there is no choice. I can’t stay up here, and I won’t crumple further before the marines. The world frays around the edges of my vision, but my feet find the ropes and my hands tighten around the hemp. One step. Two.
Catsper and Penn stay beside me all the way to the deck. Here heads turn, and snickers rustle through the crew. They know what’s happened.
I look straight ahead and follow Catsper’s blond head. Step. Step. Step. Perhaps I’ll get fortunate and some tsunami will swallow the ship.
I realize we are in marine country only when we approach the Spades’ barracks. Catsper shoves me behind him before entering, as if we’re heading into enemy territory.
The assessment is not far wrong. Inside the dormitory, black-clad boys chase, shove, and climb over each other like a mob of puppies. One lad launches himself at Catsper, who blocks the attack, tossing the boy over his hip with neither effort nor attention. The contrast between the hard-faced Spades I’d seen on deck and this jovial mob hits me like rain in drought.
The boys register my presence, and the din dies away. Catsper’s dog, Rum, nuzzles between the boys’ legs and growls.
My heart stalls. Dogs had started acting odd around Clay too, once he was ill. A coincidence. Rum growls at everyone. I take a step back.
Catsper blades his body toward me. He is taller than I and built like a panther. Strong, smooth, and deadly. “You are a guest in Spade’s Cove, Ash,” he says. “Everything you see and hear in the Cove, stays here. Clear?”
“Aye, sir.”
He signals with his hand, and the boys return to mayhem. Catsper leads me to a bench. Rum, following at his master’s heels, continues to growl. Catsper frowns.
I hope Rum dislikes enough people that one more raises little suspicion.
The marine motions me to sit, which I do gratefully. As ironic as it is, the very essence of the crowded jostling of the Cove offers the kind of privacy one seldom finds on a frigate. I touch my face gingerly and wonder if Johina broke anything.
Penn, looking small and miserable, appears beside me with a medicine box, water, and some rags. Catsper dismisses the boy with a jerk of his head and examines my face. His gaze is calm and calculating. “You’ll see problems with those two again, I think.” Catsper lifts my swollen eyelid. “I recommend you prepare for it. Have you much training in hand-to-hand fighting?”
I blink my good eye. Did the lieutenant of the marines just recommend I seek out a scrap? Even if I had a prayer in taking on Johina and Mic, which I don’t, I have little intention of sinking to their level. “Some, sir.” I wince. “But I’d rather face the Eflians’ wrath than Mr. Dana’s in any case.”
Catsper catches my chin, forcing my face up. His eyes laugh. “You don’t fear Dana, Ash. You are the only sailor aboard who doesn’t.”
“Not for my lack of trying.” Domenic’s voice makes me jump. The door slams closed behind him. “What happened?”
“You can bloody well guess what bloody happened.” Catsper does not bother turning around, and the general din of the Cove remains steady. I sit up straighter, curiosity battling pain. D
omenic and Catsper never speak on deck, but he is plainly a common sight here. Common and welcome. “And then Nile injected herself into the middle of it, with bravery getting in the way of arithmetic.”
Domenic removes his coat and neck stock and squats beside me. His shirt collar falls open, reaching halfway down his muscled chest, where a tattoo snakes along the groove of his pectorals. Stripped of rank insignia, Domenic looks younger, his sea-blue eyes brilliant and piercing. He looks like the stranger on the beach who had shared his jacket and his thoughts. And had listened to mine.
“Are you unable to walk past trouble without sticking your head in?” he asks. With him crouching and me sitting on a bench, our eyes are level with each other, and I notice a small crescent scar marring his left brow. Domenic dips a rag into the water bowl and presses it to the gash along my cheekbone.
I realize it’s salt water when I feel its harsh sting. I jerk away and glare with one eye.
Domenic’s large hand cups the back of my head, locking it in place. Fingers calloused from ropes and weapons press against my hair. “Blame Catsper for the salt water,” he says, resuming his task. “He think salt fights off infection and fever.”
“The Spardic surgeons think salt fights off infection and fever,” Catsper clarifies lazily. “I just parrot smarter minds than mine.”
I want to smile, but the recent demonstration with Rory reminds me who I’m dealing with. I lean away. Cove rules or not, Domenic is still the first officer, and fighting is still not permitted aboard ship. “I fell, sir.”
He sighs and looks to Catsper. “How badly did they hurt her?”
“Considering there were two sacks of Eflian scum and one her, less than they could have.” The marine taps my cheekbone, which I fear will need stitches. “And less than I’m going to.”
What in the bloody hell does he mean by that? I tilt my face up to regard the marine with my good eye.