Minerva was about to interrupt, but he wasn't done.
"The same is true of plummite. Plummite is just a rock. However, it is a rock that can fall in unexpected directions because people believe that it can. Therefore, it does. That is why when you believed that it was plummite it behaved like plummite, and when you believed that it was just a rock, it behaved like just a rock."
"You're saying that creating magic only requires believing in something?" she asked.
"Yes," he declared, unleashing his smile once more.
"Then why can't anyone do it?"
"Now we're biting at the marrow. Humans, as a creature, loathe to accept their limitations. We insist that nothing is impossible, and yet, self-doubt wracks our efficacy. A magician, however, lacks that doubt. When the world says 'you can't do that', we reply with 'watch me'. A magician believes, honestly and truly, that the world is not the way that it appears to be, and when that happens, the world is reluctant to prove them wrong. There are over one hundred people on this ship that believe rubbing a woolen broom against a sail made of spider silk will make this ship fly. They are wrong, and they don't believe it's magical, but you couldn't convince them otherwise."
Minerva suddenly understood why she was locked in with Lintumen. "You said we. That means you're a magician, and just now, on the deck with the rope. That was magic."
"Yes, it was. I tasked you with repeating those five paces, with me in tow, to solidify your belief that I would be behind you every time. On the last attempt, when I handed the rope to Captain Glass, the rope stretched, because you lacked all doubt in any resistance. No other option existed that could both satisfy your belief, and the belief of the crew."
"And the whole crew saw it," she mumbled to herself. "Wait! That's not fair! If that's how it works, then your trick was more likely to work because the crew was expecting something special."
Lintumen's grin twitched excitedly, but he retained his composure.
"You tricked me! They were all waiting, just waiting for something to happen. Anything to happen. You told them that I could stretch that rope, didn't you? That's why it worked!"
Lintumen's eyes sparkled. "Is that what you believe?"
"Well, it certainly would have changed things, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, it would have altered the outcome dramatically, but the fact remains, you are the magician, not them. Their presence made a possible situation probable."
"What makes you so certain?"
"Unless our riggers have been extremely negligent, the lines affixed to the base of a mast cannot be easily unspooled. Furthermore, even if you could, the act alone would incur significant chaos within the rigging, and I seriously doubt that you possess the capacity to restrain a liberated sail."
Something about Lintumen's response forced Minerva into an introspective mindset. It wasn't what he said, it was the details that he left unsaid.
"The rope I ran to catch the twin with," she concluded. "It couldn't have reached the railing. I did that without any help." Minerva felt shame in her voice. "How did I do that?"
"Ah, that," said Lintumen. "Every magician possesses an affinity for their talents. I suspect that yours is cloth and textiles. Thus far, you've stretched ropes and doused fires with spider silk sailcloth, the latter of which is incredibly flammable. You also constructed a dress with stitching capable of supporting your entire weight on the edge of a blade. Even as a magician, we call someone like you a tailor."
Minerva furrowed her brow and sat down beside Lintumen. "If all it takes is belief, how do you know what's magic and what's real? Couldn't anything be magic or anything be real? It sounds like you're just validating circumstance."
Lintumen awarded Minerva with a victorious smile and placed his arm around her. "You, my dear, are one of the smartest girls I have ever met. That very question has been debated for centuries by the greatest magicians in the world."
"And what have they decided?"
Lintumen glanced nervously about the cabin and then leaned in slowly. Minerva moved in closer out of eagerness, fully enshrouded by his scent of old books and cinnamon. When he whispered in her ear, almost below her range of hearing, she smelled eggs and brandy on his breath.
"We don't know."
Chapter 11
Murder Aboard the Skyraker
Minerva remained under Lintumen's observation until the next morning. He had given her an awful lot to think about and he left her to think about it. Olbus brought her breakfast and then escorted her back to 'buckets'. The other swabbies greeted her with glares and furtive glances.
Strongly desiring something to occupy herself, Minerva retrieved a dirty bucket and began to clean it out. When she splashed a few pumps into the bucket, Spit spoke up.
"That's how she does it. Magic."
Minerva looked up at the rusted, pitted pump handle, and then sideways at the other swabbies. Spit, specifically, wore a rather pronounced expression of contempt.
"First the Phoenix attacks us, and we find you, and now Cloudscorch. How long were you out of Lint's cell before the attack? Two hours? Three? It's as if you called it to us. It's a good thing Gunner is the best there is, or we'd all be dead twice over."
Our gunner, she thought, subconsciously correcting Spit. No, he said just gunner, she noted, correcting herself. "His name is just Gunner?" she wondered aloud.
The four boys gawked at her question. They were clearly dealing with someone of a lesser intellect who couldn't even grasp the basic topic of a conversation. Their overt attention made her feel sheepish, so she turned to dump her bucket out the porthole.
With her head in the clouds outside the ship, Minerva felt someone grab her by the foot, and then someone else gripped her by the knee on the other leg. She looked back to see what was happening, but was suddenly lifted into the air as they ejected her up to her waist through the small opening.
Minerva screamed and braced her legs to prevent further unwanted exit, slapping her hands against the hull in search of a handhold. Her bucket fell from her grasp, tumbling in the air and spinning wildly as it descended towards certain disaster.
"Pull her knees in!" Spit yelled.
At the sensation of a grip on her knee, Minerva flexed her leg forward into the hull of the ship. A solid crack and swearing revealed a telling blow against someone's fingers. Then she kicked back with her newly freed leg and felt a jaw smash against her heel.
"Let her go!"
The crunch of wood and the chaos of a scuffle crashed out of the room and Minerva's remaining leg was set loose. She pulled herself back inside to find Lockjaw standing between her and the other swabbies. He held an empty bucket like a weapon and stood over Patch, who was nursing his arm.
"Traitor!" Spit shouted with a fat lip, spitting out blood.
Grunts, Spit, and Patch all picked up buckets of their own. Outnumbered and cornered, Minerva searched for a weapon, but found nothing within reach.
"If it wasn't for her we'd never have gotten those fires out," Lockjaw urged.
"She's the reason Cloudscorch found us at all!" Patch yelled back. "She's a girl! She shouldn't even be here!"
Lockjaw may have been quiet, and a little daft with words, but he had apparently been in more than a few fights. Before the other three could react, the bottom end of his bucket shattered across Patch's face, sending the swabbie to the floor. Grunts vaulted forward in response, punching Lockjaw in the stomach and tackling him to the ground. A flurry of feet and fists erupted where they landed.
Spit swung once at Minerva, but she dodged backwards, landing on the bench behind her. She put her foot up in defense and caught him in the gut, but he lurched forward wheezing and grabbed her shirt in both hands.
"You're just like my sister!" he snapped, striking again and punching her in the chest. It hurt more than she thought it would. "A whiny little princess that always gets her way!" He swung again, connecting with the sensitive spot on the side of her head.
Minerva's legs buckled as
Spit put all his weight into pushing forward. With her guard down, he forced his hands around her neck, and she choked, gasping for air.
"Minerva!" Lockjaw yelled, trying to help her, but was unable to untangle himself from Grunts.
Spit had a mad, furious look in his eye. "Let's see if my bad luck ends when I kill you!" he snarled.
Minerva struggled to reach Spit's face, or his shirt, or anything to pull him into striking distance. His long arms easily outreached hers, and she punched at his elbows and wrists and twisted his fingers, but he wouldn't let go. Spit tightened his grip and spit on her face. She thrashed valiantly in defiance, digging into the soft wood of the walls and the hard-worn benches as she tried to escape his stranglehold.
Kick him! Scratch him! Her mind raced as her world went grey, but it wasn't working. His arms were too long. His grip was too tight. Her head hurt and she couldn't think.
Your bun is too tight. Unwind it.
At the most unlikely of times, on the brink of unconsciousness and death, that was Minerva's thought. It hardly seemed relevant or useful, but failing the ability to do anything else, she complied.
Spit unleashed a startled scream and something hot splashed across Minerva face as Spit stumbled and fell back against the door. She scrambled to her feet as he toppled, ready to defend herself again. Lockjaw was laying on the floor, badly stunned, while Grunts stood over him. At the sight of Spit slumping backwards he adopted an expression of terror. For a moment, his eyes locked onto something in Minerva's hand, and then he shoved Spit aside and dashed out the door.
Lockjaw nursed his head, unable to stand, while Patch lay unconscious on the floor, and Spit was swiftly passing out in a pool of blood. Minerva felt something warm and wet in her hand, and looked down to see a tiny curved dagger. She wiped the blood off on her shirt and quickly wound her secret back into her bun. If she was caught with a weapon, that would be the end of her.
Spit flopped sideways, and Minerva moved to help him. On his left arm, she found a deep cut, nearly to the bone. Blood didn't bother Minerva, as she often aided her father with his surgeries. By combining that knowledge with her seasoned tailoring skills, she quickly formed a tourniquet using a length of Spit's shirt and a broken bucket handle.
Minerva halted the blood loss just in time to hear the sound of Olbus' massive form thundering down the hallway towards her.
Chapter 12
The Velvet Sovereign
Minerva sat in silence while Lintumen applied stitches to Spit's arm. Spit glared at Minerva the entire time, although he was also quite drunk and drooled lightly, thanks to alcohol being the nearest equivalent to anesthetic. When Lintumen completed his work, Olbus retrieved the swabbie. Minerva didn't even consider going with him.
When the locks closed again, Lintumen went to sit on the dusty cushions behind his table. "Is your life ordinarily this overwhelmingly eventful?" Lintumen chimed, almost as a taunt. "An abduction. Two airborne battles. A daring mid-air magical rescue. Now, an attempted murder. If you never experience another day of adventure in your life, you could entertain your children for years."
Minerva furrowed her brow in frustration and turned away.
"Excellent application of a tourniquet, by the way. How did you know what to do?"
"My father taught me."
"You probably saved his life. He won't be using that arm for quite some time, but he won't lose it. Truthfully, I'm rather impressed with his constitution. Most grown men couldn't tolerate a surgery like that, but he endured it masterfully."
Minerva felt sick.
"Apparently you cut him with a dagger that you drew from your hair," Lintumen said in a questioning tone.
Minerva was there when Grunts told Olbus what had happened. He of course failed to mention anything about them trying to murder her. Olbus ordered her to undo her bun, and then confiscated the dagger, as well as the picks she normally used to restrain her hair. He gave her a disapproving look when he left the items with Lintumen, who was now looking down at the pieces on his table.
"The boatswain says he couldn't find a weapon on you."
Minerva's guts went cold as she looked up at Lintumen, who seemed oddly eager.
"A rather curious fact, I must say. Only a fine edge could inflict such a clean and deep cut."
He's tricking you, she first thought, followed quickly by confusion, as the weapon in question was directly in front of him.
"Not going to tell me? Well, let me properly inform you of your situation. Fighting aboard most ships carries a severe punishment, and the Skyraker is no exception. If the boatswain catches you with a weapon, you could suffer an even harsher reprimand. Possibly even execution."
Minerva sat on her hands and refused to look Lintumen in the eye. She glanced again at the dagger on the table, trying to understand how he couldn't see it, or why he was refusing to acknowledge it.
Lintumen paused as he followed her line of sight, and the entirety of his visage crumpled into wrinkles and folds as contemplation overtook him. "It's right here, isn't it?" He said it slow and deliberate as the realization dawned on him. "Which is it? One of these two slats? This wooden pick?"
Minerva looked again, wondering how he could mistake the glistening wicked blade of the dagger for a wooden pick. Lintumen's eyes widened, and he suddenly rushed to a nearby shelf while his body objected loudly. He pulled out a weighty tome and rushed to sit down again, but bumped the table by accident as he did.
"Curse it!" he snarled, as the contents of the table scattered wildly. He ground his teeth and scanned the chaos before looking up at her, almost as if he had completely forgotten her presence. "I won't tell a soul if you show me. I promise." He looked insane with determination.
"It's there," she said, pointing weakly at the dagger wedged between two books. "Between those books. The red and the brown one," she added, trying to help when he did not immediately reach for it.
"Ah-ha!" Lintumen cried, as he slammed his palm down on top of the weapon, pinning it in place by pressing it flat. "Very clever indeed," he said with excitement.
Lintumen lifted the dagger with the same care and focus that one might use to pick up a rat, and then he drove it into the wood of the table, leaving it standing upright. He left his index finger resting on its hilt while his other fingers twitched impatiently. With his eyes on the blade, he opened the book at his side with his free hand.
"Do you know what I see beneath my finger, my dear?"
Minerva shook her head, wondering.
"I cannot see a weapon, nor can I feel one. I see a wooden pick, or a belaying pin, or a writing quill. It changes each time I look away. So tell me, what do you see?"
Minerva stepped slowly to the side of the table. She now understood the fear that the others held for Lintumen. "I see a slim dagger."
"Details. Describe it." All politeness had fallen from his voice.
"It has a curved blade the length of my hand, and a thin handle with a leather binding. Its finger guard is very pretty. The hilt is long, like on a sword, with a silver pommel that is like a rose."
"I see. Continue." Lintumen whipped frantically through the pages as she spoke.
"The guard is filigreed, with gold trim. I can see eight small gems in it. No, nine."
"What kind?"
"Rubies, maybe? They're red. There's also three in the pommel. They are small, like on a ring."
"Twelve red gems?"
Minerva retrieved the dagger from between Lintumen's fingers and examined it closely. "Oh, actually there are many gems set into the guard. They are very small. Some are clear, and some are green."
"How many?" Lintumen looked up at her, seemingly in awe.
Minerva carefully tallied the green gems, but gave up on the white ones, because she kept losing count. "Um, twenty-seven green ones, and I don't know, a lot of white ones. More than sixty."
Lintumen removed his hand from the page, unveiling a near perfect image of the item she held. It was entitled The Sove
reign Sabre.
"That's the one," she said, pointing at the drawing.
"Are you certain?" Lintumen asked. He used a warning tone that she wasn't certain how to interpret.
Minerva compared the weapon to the image again, just to be confident, and then nodded.
"The Sovereign Sabre," Lintumen began, reading from the page. "A blade of incredible power known throughout the world by many names; The Lady of Blades, The Unseen Aegis, The Assassin's Bane, The Foe of Fiends, The Hidden Light, and many more."
Lintumen glanced up at her before continuing.
"Given in shame to Our Most Beloved Queen, may it guard her in secret from foes both seen and unseen. We impose upon Our Most Beloved Queen the use of a weapon, a mere shadow of her beauty and stature, vastly inferior to her unbound love and kindness, wary of blemishing her truth and honesty with our impotence. We humbly ask Our Most Beloved Queen to accept this burden that she might please our minds to never worry."
Minerva stood with her mouth agape. "This was given to a queen?"
Lintumen grinned, revealing his pleasure in her reply. "Not just any queen, either. This was given to Our Most Beloved Queen."
His emphasis failed to impress Minerva.
"It is a title, not a statement. She was the first queen of the Linoran Empire. To claim that throne, she defeated the fractured warlords of the region and brought peace to her people. When she was just eighteen, no less. Her royal insignia is a rose inset with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. Her subjects chose that title for her."
"What happened to her?"
"Died the day before her birthday, at the accomplished old age of ninety-nine. There are eighty-one white diamonds on the hilt. One for each year of her reign. Each ruby gem represents an important victory in her history, and each green emerald, a landmark achievement in the expansion of the empire. Only the creator of the Sovereign Sabre, and Our Most Beloved Queen, possessed the ability to see the true form of the blade at all times. For everyone else, the blade itself chooses to be seen."
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