by Alex Lidell
“Sir.” I speak quickly, before Rima can cut me off. I believe Price, and not just because of his wounds or his words matching Thad’s. The whole concept fits well with the Republic’s methods. Sanctioned brutality. An excuse to abuse one set of people in hopes another may gain from it. “If the Institute does exist, we may yet have time to save the Siren and Maiden crews from an awful fate. And if it does not, we lose nothing but a bit of time. Might you consider the matter further overnight?”
I don’t notice Domenic rise until I see him before me and feel the back of his hand strike my mouth. I fall to my knees and taste blood.
“Which part of keeping your mouth shut did you have trouble comprehending, Ash?” Domenic demands.
I look up and touch my hand to my throbbing lip.
Domenic towers over me, hands on his hips. His bulk blocks most of my sight, and his chest moves with deep, angry breaths. His gaze grips mine, telling me to stay down.
I glare up at him, my muscles coiled so tight, they burn.
“Get her out of here, Mr. Dana.” Rima’s voice is appeased, but barely. “And please instruct Ms. Ash on the meaning of convoy duty and responsibility. If the recent engagement has left her without the stomach for the navy, I will inquire with the Solace skipper of their need for a laundress.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Domenic grips my arm hard and marches me from the cabin. I struggle against the hold, but it’s a futile proposition. He drags me into an alcove and spins me to face him. “Are you an idiot?”
I glower at him. “Are you?”
“I’m smart enough to know that Captain Rima is not going to alter our course.” Domenic’s voice is hard. “He was never going to, no matter what that boy claimed. I need you working to better this ship, not lounging around in irons—or worse—for insolence.”
Silence stretches between us. I cross my arms, refusing to touch my still-bleeding lip. Though I’ll be damned before I admit as much to him, Domenic is right. Challenging Rima with nothing more than opinion to back up my words wasn’t one of my brightest moments. “I believe Price about the Institute.”
Domenic shrugs. “I believe the Republic commits many atrocities. I also think your wish to have this one be true may skew your judgment.”
I raise my brows. “My wish that an Institute that tortures people really exists?”
“Your wish that someone may have found a cure for Clay,” he says gently.
I retreat a step before I can stop myself, Domenic’s words stripping me naked. Swallowing, I desperately pull myself together. “The Institute,” I say a little too quickly. “My concern isn’t for Clay… Not just for Clay. If I knew for a fact, a cold, solid fact, that the Institute has discovered nothing, I would still risk my life to stop its atrocities and rescue its captives.”
Domenic looks down into my eyes. “You took on two armed men to defend a stranger and stood between a marine boy and two sailors twice your size,” he whispers. “I’ve no doubt you’d turn the world on its side to rescue captives.” Domenic’s hand rises and hovers indecisively inches from my face. His hand slides forward, the fingers bracing against my jaw as his thumb brushes my cheek and lip gently, wiping away the blood. Callouses scrape against my skin, bruised and very, very sensitive.
I draw a sharp breath despite myself.
Domenic’s hand stills, hovering but not touching me. I had to, his eyes say. I’m sorry.
I know. I cling to the ghost of Domenic’s touch on my skin, my heart galloping. I should say something. Something interesting. Intelligent. On the deck above, the wind cracks the sails. “Price said we’ll have no wind by morning,” I mumble.
Domenic swallows once and steps back, straightening his tunic. His face is flushed. “Unlikely.” His voice reclaims its usual chill. “But we shall see soon enough.” He gives me a curt bow and, turning on his heel, walks quickly away.
Chapter 23
We have no wind by morning. Or the next day. Or the one after that. The deck is a mess. There is little more demoralizing to a crew than a ship refusing to move. I wish Price had mentioned when this horrid calm would pass. I wish I could speak with him again.
Rima is on deck, smiling at the crew as if all is grand with the world. He’d have to be blind to miss the chipped paint on the starboard rail and the glob of tobacco chew on the planking, but I know he will call no one out for it. He will leave public reprimands to Domenic.
I turn my back to the captain before my face reveals my thoughts. And as I turn, I feel it. Fear. The world closing in. I gasp and throw myself toward the companionway, half sliding, half falling down the steps. I’ve a few heartbeats before the convulsions start, and I must be off deck by then. Better be thought an idiot than spend the rest of my life locked away as an invalid like Clay.
The jerking spell seizes me at the bottom of the companionway ladder. My right side thrashes, hitting painfully against the steps. My teeth bite into my tongue.
Footsteps clamber toward me.
“Ash?” a seaman demands. “What the—”
He cuts off as I roll onto my knees and vomit all over the deck.
“Again?” he curses. “Bloody again? And have you no notion of the rail, damn you? Must be getting dumber each time you lose your meal.” The seaman growls under his breath. “I’ll fetch a bucket and swab, but you can bloody well clean up your own mess.”
I lean my head against the steps and pant as he leaves, spreading word of my misaimed sea sickness. Snickers reach me from the deck above, along with none too quiet suggestions to stop wasting food on me. I try not to listen, but I can’t help it. My face burns.
The seaman slaps a bucket beside me. I swab the planks clean of vomit and stumble to my berth for a fresh shirt before returning to deck.
“Ash.” Domenic is in my face the moment I return, his body silhouetting the sun. Of course he’d have heard. We’ve not spoken since that touch outside Rima’s cabin three days ago, and this, me post-convulsion and vomit, isn’t how I pictured our next meeting. I try to step back, but Domenic follows, trapping me between the ladder and himself. “What happened?” The formality in his voice is at odds with his concerned eyes.
“Sorry, sir.” I touch my forehead respectfully, aware that every word is public. Glad that every word is public. It makes lying easier. “My stomach turned. Seasickness.”
“Seasickness,” he echoes dryly, those blue eyes flash in warning. “Again. Being so new to the sea must be a difficult adjustment.”
I raise my chin, my heart fluttering. “Yes, sir.”
Domenic tilts his head, crossing his muscled arms over his chest. “The merchant convoy under Aurora’s escort is bound for the Diante port. Once we dock there, you will go ashore and consult with a physician.”
A jolt races through me. I little need additional attention. “Thank you, sir, but there is no need,” I say quietly.
“That was not a suggestion.” His voice drops to match mine. “Unless you lose your meals overboard as a service to the fish?”
“You are ordering me to see a doctor?” I hiss. This is precisely the type of thing my mother would do, manipulate her position to force her notion of “something for my own good” upon me. I school my voice. “With due respect, sir, seasickness is a common ailment at sea. And even if it was not, there is little to expect from Diante medicine. To the best of my knowledge, the Diante pray and meditate ills away. Usually while burning incense.”
“Then pray, meditate, and burn incense.” His voice has an edge now.
The rein I have on my own tone is as tight as a bowstring. “If I may be about my duties, sir?”
He nods once.
I bow stiffly and twist on my heel, channeling my fury into work. “Rodney, Sid, Norian!” I shout, the din I make hurting my head. “Let’s have these ropes coiled, if you please.”
Having set my work party to task, I summon the pretense of sail inspection to make my way to the shrouds. Climbing aloft is likely unwise given my jerking spell, but m
y nerves crave the soothing familiarity of swaying ropes and fresh air. Plus, I cannot live in constant fear of my body’s betrayal. Work at sea requires work aloft.
Sitting on the lookout platform, I watch the deck. Bloody Domenic is engrossed in filling out the bloody logbook. Captain Rima strolls. In our wake, Solace and Hope bob along. I think back to Lady Madeline’s tastes and wonder how stiff a fee the Hope is paying for illegally joining the convoy. And how much of that is for discretion.
“Nile?” Ana pulls herself up through the lubber’s hole and settles beside me, her small frame hardly taking up space on the platform.
I’m surprised to see her in the shrouds by choice, but I don’t mention it. We haven’t spoken more than a few words to each other since after the battle, and I miss her more than I should. Maybe it’s better this way. I’m damaged goods. “Ma’am?”
She bites her lip. “Can we end our quarrel?”
“There is no quarrel, ma’am.”
“Stop it.” Her hand slips over mine, slender fingers with pink-glazed nails. The touch of skin on skin is warm, genuine.
I try to pull away.
Ana tightens her grip on my hand. “Yes, Nile, we are different. You’ve a warrior’s heart and I’ve a mother’s. But the world needs us both in it. And different and friends are not mutually exclusive states. Giving up on a friendship because of a single discord is bloody idiotic.”
My brows rise. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard Ana curse before. “Bloody idiotic?”
She flushes, the corner of her mouth twitching. “I was trying to find words you’d appreciate.”
Yes, she was. Just as she was trying by climbing the shrouds. Just as she had been trying since the moment we met, coaxing and caring and talking to me like we were equals when her status ranked so far above mine. Sharing her berth. “My mother is from Felielle,” I say after a moment. “We drive each other mad. But I love her a great deal… When she’s not trying to turn me into, well, you.”
Ana laughs aloud. “I’m not the worst thing to be turned into,” she says, but there is no bite in her voice. “Smart, pretty, with a great sense of—”
“Modesty?” I try for a smile, but my gaze catches on Domenic down below. He is turning away from the logbook, sending a wave of frenzied effort through the crew.
“Dana is pleasant to look at,” Ana says beside me. “From afar.”
My cheeks heat. “I wasn’t—”
“Of course not.” She starts to smile but stops. “What’s happened to your face?”
I touch my lip, which is still tender from the confrontation in the captain’s cabin. “I spoke out of turn.”
Ana shifts her weight, and I recall she’s wary of the height. “In Felielle, we believe it is wrong to strike a girl. And you need not remind me we are not in Felielle, Nile. There are some values that transcend culture.”
“It wasn’t like that.” I growl at myself for defending Domenic, who is taking it upon himself to issue orders for my own good. As if my own good is in any way his prerogative.
“Oh.” Ana swings her legs tentatively. “And here I thought a man twice your size struck you across the face. My mistake.”
“Ana.” There is a note of warning in my voice that the girl weathers with a flick of a manicured brow.
“When the Tirik attacked, I little wished to listen to your instruction, much less follow it. But I know you kept us from greater harm. You know what I do not of battle. And you’ll forgive me when I say that I know what you do not when it comes to men and feelings.”
“There are no feelings,” I tell Ana firmly. “And no men. There is only a chain of command. Actions and consequences. I really should check the sail while I’m up here.”
“The twins are having difficulties calculating our position, and Kederic is worried about his lieutenant exams,” Ana calls before I get two steps out. “I promised I’d find a master’s mate to help explain things. To all us middies.”
I pause in midstep and turn toward her. Ana could not care less about navigation if she tried.
Ana blushes. “It… It appeared important to several of the parties involved. Are you the mate we need to ask?” Jerking her chin toward the deck, she starts a careful climb back down the ratlines. I hesitate only a moment before scampering after her.
There are five middies who gather around me on the back poop deck of the ship: Ana, seventeen-year-old Kederic, twelve-year-old twins Song and Sand, and fourteen-year-old Thatch Lawrence. All watch me with wary eyes.
I sweep my gaze over them, taking in the sextons and slate and chalk. The middies might little know what to make of me, but they came to work. Fair enough. I put my hands behind my back and nod toward the horizon. “I little expect you to place the Aurora in the Siaman Sea, but let’s see if anyone at least gets her in an ocean.”
A crack of a smile, this from Kederic. His last calculation attempt, which I overheard reported to Lieutenant Kazzik this morning, put our ship in the middle of an Eflian mine.
After an hour with the middies and their sextons, I have a headache that has nothing to do with the air calling. They are a better group of youngsters than Rima deserves, but there are too few competent hands on the Aurora to teach them their trade. We’d given up taking measurements within a few minutes, focusing instead on the mathematics behind position calculations. The numbers on the slate greeted me like old friends and, headache or not, I enjoyed sharing their workings with an eager audience. The only middie to keep silent the entire time is Sand.
“Is it true that you found a Tirik hiding on the Aurora?” Sand asks finally as we put away instruments and slates.
I frown at the darkness in his tone. “Yes.”
“If you were a real officer, you would have killed him.”
“What?” I blink, unsure which of Sand’s implications to address first, but he spins and walks away from me before I can speak.
“Sand is upset over Midshipman Lucas’s death,” Kederic says, watching the departing figure. “Don’t mind him. Will you work with us again, Ms. Ash? This has been…err…”
“Overdue,” Thatch Lawrence puts in undiplomatically, oblivious to Kederic’s wince. “Mr. Kazzik just nods at anything we say, and Mr. Dana gets a pained look on his face and tells us to start over.”
“It’s a bit similar to the look you got after our first measurement,” Song puts in sagely. “As if you ate ship’s biscuit without evicting the weevils.”
I choke on a laugh and turn away before we lose all decorum.
The middies disperse quickly to their duties, and I head to inspect my crew’s progress with setting the Aurora’s rigging to some sort of naval standard. Domenic may have promoted me only to justify my role during the attack, but I intend to show him the extent of what an Ashing girl is capable of. Schedules and watch bills and tasks race through my mind, mixing with the tinge of excitement. I will tighten the Aurora to be the kind of ship she should be. I certainly can make her no worse.
I stumble, my foot catching on a rope that should have been coiled. By my work crew. None of whom are at their task. A growl rises from my chest. Which part of “coil these ropes” could possibly be misinterpreted?
I spot one of the seamen from my detail sitting beside a gun. He is darning a hole in his shirt and exchanging stories with a similarly employed man. I call him over. “What happened, Rodney?”
The man looks from me to the ropes. “Oh, aye. I’m just about to take care of that now.”
“What were you about the past two hours?” I demand.
Rodney blinks, unabashed. “Just finishing up something real quick, ma’am. The bosun says we must have our clothes in proper order.”
My teeth clench. “Put away your bloody tunic and do the job.”
“Aye, ma’am.” The seaman touches his forehead and picks up his things, carrying them below. I realize my mistake five minutes later, when he fails to return. I wait another five. Then ten. Then I ask one of the Spades to fish Rodney out
and drag him to deck.
My nostrils flare. I put my hands behind my back and glare at the companionway until Rodney emerges. “Mr. Rodney.” My voice is cool. The kind of cool that made Faithful’s sailors flinch. “It is kind of you to join me on deck.”
Rodney shrugs. “Well, we’ve a job to do.”
“Indeed.” I clear my throat. “Might you enlighten me as to the delay belowdecks?”
He blinks. “No delay. I stopped in to use the head fast as I could and was just coming back up when the boy here found me. My stomach has been gripping me for days, ma’am.”
My face is as hot as my impotence as Rodney’s passive insubordination sinks in. How am I to command a crew that refuses to be commanded? I bite back a curse and take charge of my voice. “Very well. You may carry on with your duties now.” This time, I stay on deck and start coiling one of the ropes myself. The Aurora bloody will look like a ship of war, even if I have to demonstrate each task.
Rodney walks over to the first rope that needs coiling and picks it up off the deck. I’m past expecting him to fall to task with a will, but the seaman fails to meet even those minuscule expectations.
“Is there something you are waiting on, Rodney?” I snap.
“There were to be three of us for this,” he says earnestly. “The job will be done better if we work together. It will be done right.”
“And where are your partners?” I know I am digging myself deeper into a discussion that should not be happening in the first place, but blatant logic is forcing my tongue.
“They’ll be here any minute now. I’m quite certain of it.” Rodney lays his hand over his heart, underscoring his promise.
“That is not what I asked.”
Then Rodney purses his lips, exasperated. “I wouldn’t know where they are, Ms. Ash.”
“If you do not know where they are, then how, pray tell me, do you know that they shall return shortly?” I’ve lost the rein on my voice. And my temper. I want to stamp my feet and curse at the windless sky. My face is hot, the ropes are disheveled, and I am no closer to progressing anything than I was when I started. If I send Rodney to find his mates, he will never return. If I go seek them myself, he will do nothing while I’m gone.