“Are you going to eat that?” he asked, amused. He took more of the marang.
Imena popped the fish cake into her mouth. It was richly peppered and dusted with salt. She made a pleased sound. When she reached for another, Maxime was watching her hungrily.
Imena swallowed, nearly choked and hurriedly downed some tea. Maxime refilled her cup for her, and she smiled; it was an imperial custom to watch for your dining companion’s needs. He said softly, “I could do this every morning for the rest of my life. Though I’d prefer it if you didn’t look so tired. Maybe you should take the morning off and come back to bed with me.”
Imena looked down at the platter in front of her. It was easy to forget the realities of life when you were trapped outside your normal time and place. She drained her teacup, hoping it would open her eyes, and held her cup out to Maxime for more.
A call from Norris, just outside the tent, saved her from making any verbal response to him other than, “You should get dressed.” Her own robe was laid out near the platter. Imena slipped it on, then lifted the tent flap and gestured Norris inside.
Norris wore a matching tunic and knee-length linen pantaloons embroidered with bright flowers that made Imena squint. More flowers—scarlet, orange and purple—were pinned into the crown of hair atop her head. Their scent was thick, dizzying, almost dreamlike.
“You should have woken me earlier,” Imena said.
Norris said, “It’s still Roxanne’s watch, Captain, and Chetri is about to take her place. They said it was all right to let you sleep. Chetri said to tell you he has your written instructions, and he’ll report on those items as soon as he’s completed his survey.”
“Tell him I’ll accompany him.”
Norris’s expression clearly expressed her dissatisfaction, but Imena wasn’t about to let Chetri take over all the labor of inspecting the ship from hull to rigging, prioritizing repairs and assigning crews to do the labor. He hadn’t worked as many hours as she had during the storm, it was true, but he was older, and she was the captain. All of it was her responsibility, weary or not. His assumption of her duty shifts would come only after she’d assured herself she truly wasn’t needed.
Norris was still silent. Imena lifted her brows in query. Norris said, “Aye, Captain. Would you like anything else for breakfast?”
“No, but you may tell One-Eye or whoever made them that the fish cakes are delicious.”
From the rear of the tent, Maxime said, “I thought so, too.” He turned to face them while still tugging a faded red singlet over his head. His trousers were cut off at the knee, and looked as if they’d come from Seaflower’s slop chest.
Norris smiled. “Suzela cooked the fish. Working with the Knife made her a little green, so Chetri sent her to One-Eye. She seems much happier.”
“Good,” Imena said. Guiltily, she recalled that she ought to have been paying more attention to their two refugees; though Chetri had brought them on board and claimed responsibility, she was still the captain. After her initial talk with them, she’d left that duty too much to others, the previous evening notwithstanding.
It did no good to tell herself she’d had plenty more important things to occupy her. She’d been too distracted by Maxime to properly attend to her duties. She drained her teacup again and stretched while still sitting. Ligaments eased and popped in her neck, little fireworks of hot pain. She might need to indulge in a massage later if she couldn’t swim the kinks out of her muscles. “Thank you, Norris. Tell Roxanne and Chetri I’ll be along shortly, as soon as I’ve dressed.”
“Do you need any hot water, Captain? We’ve got coppers going already, for tea and for fish soup.”
Imena shook her head. “I swam last night. You needn’t bother with the extra work. Go on, now.”
After Norris had left, Maxime asked, “What will my duties be?”
“Toss me some clothes,” she said. While pulling on ragged trousers similar to those Maxime wore, she said, “I’m afraid a great deal of what we have to do is nasty and monotonous, and the rest skilled labor. In your travels, did you ever work in a dockyard?”
“Sadly, no.”
She pondered. “It’s the nasty and monotonous for you, then. You’ve got muscle, but we won’t need as much of that today. Today we’ll need as many hands as we can get to shred old rope for oakum—we’re going to use up every scrap we already have in the recaulking.” She paused and shook her head ruefully. “That was one of the routine maintenance tasks that I normally have taken care of when we’re in port, but this time—”
“This time, you fled with me in tow,” Maxime finished. “I can work on oakum. And there’s hot tar, as well, isn’t there?”
“Wiscz is going to be in charge of that for us. He might not want amateurs poking in his pots, but if he asks, please do help him. It’s a hot and smelly task.”
“Perhaps they’ll let me carry heavy, stinking buckets,” Maxime said in a thoughtful tone. “It will prove my devotion to my captain.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she said, yanking a shirt over her head.
He asked, “Will you have any free time?”
She glanced over at him. “Yes, I suppose.”
“Will you do something for me?”
“Does it involve being naked?”
“I’d like you to teach me navigation.”
Imena blinked. “Do you know anything of it?”
“I’ve read Clarence’s Basics. And I began Huang, but I had only finished the introduction when you…rescued me.”
Astonished, she said, “I have a copy of Huang. We can work through it together.”
Maxime grinned, bright as midday. “I’ll look forward to it.”
On the beach, Kuan and his crew had already laid flat an old discarded sail and pinned its edges with rocks. Malim was brushing on hot pitch in small patches, while others followed behind him dropping handfuls of coarse oakum, and Kuan followed last, making sure it all adhered. The youngest members of the crew ferried buckets of water from the sea to splash the ship’s deck planking, to prevent shrinkage and thus more work. Nevens and Philippe, who were still recovering from injuries, sat with every other spare hand on the beach or among the rocks, shredding scraps of rope into buckets or onto scraps of sail and singing a song about monsters of the deep. Roxanne had exchanged her regular hook for one with several fine claws, and shredded an old cable while she conferred with Seretse. Downwind, Wiscz slowly heated tar that would be mingled with the shreds of hemp to increase their stock of oakum. She sent Maxime to join him in the arduous task.
Imena found Gnalam standing on an overturned boat, sealing hull seams with a caulking mallet and irons; despite being such a small-framed woman, her sleeve-tattooed arms were more muscular and defined than those of many men Imena had known. Imena waited until Gnalam reached for more oakum and asked, “How much do you have left?”
Gnalam laid down her tools and stretched. “Not nearly enough. We’ve hopes production will keep up, but I’m afraid we might have to stop now and again.”
“And putty?”
“I think we have enough, and if not we can use more pitch or fothers. Seretse is worried. But he always worries.”
“Part of his job,” Imena said with a rueful smile.
“Thank you, Gnalam.”
Later, Chetri found Imena as she scrambled crablike along a rope network, inspecting the hull close to and gently tapping it with a hammer to listen for soundness. With her free hand, she felt the vibrations of her tapping, checking for any looseness. Periodically, she dug a scrap of chalk from her pocket and marked a symbol on the planks.
“Gnalam can take care of that, Captain,” Chetri said. “In fact, it’s better that she does. You know she’s quicker.”
“She’s only quicker if she has nothing else to do,” Imena called down. She shoved the grip of her hammer through her belt and flipped over, hooking an arm in the lines and taking the opportunity for a rest. In truth, she was a fraction dizzy f
rom climbing. Her knock on the head hadn’t really settled, just as the Knife had predicted.
Chetri looked at her, then scrambled up the lines to perch next to her. He laid one hand flat on Seaflower’s hull. “I’d like to start the putty for above the waterline,” he said. “One part linseed oil, five parts white lead, if that seems right to you. Nabhi in charge of it. Linseed and red lead for below the waterline. I thought Bonnevie for that.”
It was the same recipes they always used. “Good,” she said, and closed her eyes. “Keep the putty-makers well away from the tar fires, we don’t want any accidents.” The world shifted uncomfortably, and she drew a deep breath, redolent of sea breeze, wood and melting tar. “How’s Norris at caulking?” she asked. “I know Gnalam and Seretse were teaching her a few months back.”
Considering, Chetri said, “There’s an idea. If she could take over for Gnalam, Gnalam could take over for you here, and leave you free to oversee. I could recruit Kuan to help Norris. The fothering’s well in hand and Malim can handle it from here. If that’s your plan?”
“Yes,” Imena said. Tentatively, she opened her eyes. She didn’t feel entirely steady, but she could make it down to the sand by herself. “I’m going to take a break.”
“I’ll report in four hours, Captain.”
She would have a drink and something to eat. Then she would pull Maxime from tar and oakum, and see how well he understood the rudiments of stellar navigation.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE KING HAD RETURNED TO HIS PALACE, THOUGH Sylvie had not yet seen him. He’d been closeted with ministers and envoys, holding private audiences, for days. Sylvie had continued circulating among the royal courtiers and so far had little to show for it. As she strolled the palace gardens one cool evening, pretending to admire the relentlessly controlled flower beds, she reviewed her progress.
She had suspicions, strong ones, but no proof of anything that she could bring to Her Grace or to Lady Gisele, much less to the Court of Inquiry that would follow a formal complaint of wrongdoing. After only one day at court in the role of a lady, she had begun to realize what Lady Gisele must already have known: no one, least of all King Julien, would believe a mere accusation, even if it did come from an aristocrat. Plots such as they suspected had been aimed at Duke Maxime were as common here as grains of sand on the beach. She’d identified several courtiers who she was sure were spies, either for one duke or another or for the king himself. No doubt there were dozens more whom she had not detected.
She hoped nothing she did would stand out sufficiently to gain the attention of the king.
She stopped and peered at a tableau of sculptured shrubbery, lit by colored lanterns. A couple was pretending to study the topiary with great interest, but Sylvie saw clearly that the man’s hand was moving inside the woman’s cape, in the area of her breasts. Taking mental note of their identity, she moved on.
She had uncovered a variety of intrigues in her investigations. Two of the haughtiest ladies of the court were heavily involved in a torrid affair, which would have been of no consequence to Sylvie except that one of the ladies was also scandalously summoning one of the upstairs maids to pleasure her, as well, unbeknownst to her other partner. Anyone who knew this might have stooped to blackmail, which might have led to more serious plotting. Unfortunately, she could find no motive linking the women to Duke Maxime. With the help of Alys, she had created a master list of which footmen and upper maids visited which chambers late at night, and the same for the small squad of eunuchs who stood guard over the royal chambers; none, however, appeared especially secretive about their sexual adventures. While in other circumstances Sylvie might have applauded this, now it was a frustration. She’d expected more from the royal court.
Monsieur Raoul, she had learned, had only two servants, and one of those a groom who had nothing to say to anyone that did not involve the high-bred gelding his master rode. The other appeared to serve both as valet and general factotum, and had his own room near the other upper servants; he’d offered Alys sweets made from date sugar, but no information about Raoul or his activities in the palace.
Sylvie had been reduced to eavesdropping and discreet watching. From this, she had learned that Monsieur Raoul liked to ride and he liked to draw, and that on clear nights, he and his servant observed the stars. He danced lightly and gracefully, but only when required; he was counted an agreeable dinner companion; and he never, ever invited anyone to his suite, female or male or eunuch.
Sylvie’s suspicion of Lord Odell was still the most promising, fueled by his surreptitious affair with Lady Diamanta, if one could call it an affair when Sylvie was sure they had not yet fucked. Their bodies spoke that much truth. She was not sure what Lady Diamanta’s aim might be, in continually refusing his advances yet not putting an end to them for good and all. She should have the power to rid herself of him completely, so she must have some advantage in allowing him to continue pursuing her. Also, she could surely aim higher than Odell, perhaps even marry the king, except that she was Julien’s first cousin and thus forbidden by laws against incest. She could marry a foreign king, however.
Did she merely toy with Odell for amusement? He was not, Sylvie thought, very amusing.
Sylvie knew that Maxime had refused to marry Diamanta, but surely that had been too recent to engender such a complex plot as this one appeared to be. Though perhaps not. Diamanta was intelligent enough to make herself rich beyond the wealth she’d inherited, and wise enough to do so despite the scorn of the rest of the court, who found such dealings crass. Sylvie could not help but respect Diamanta for that.
“Madame Sylvia.”
Sylvie was glad of her immense skirts and loose cape, for they concealed her startled twitch toward the knife thrust into her bodice’s decorative lacing; the knife’s mother-of-pearl hilt was sufficiently artful to appear as a gaudy brooch. She patted her bosom lightly, letting her cape fall open to display herself more clearly. “Monsieur Raoul. What, no companion for the evening?”
Tonight, Raoul was dressed in full foreign regalia. His boots were encrusted with gold foil from pointed toe to calf. An abundance of matching gold buttons, shaped into individual sigils, ran down the front of his snug leather jacket and fastened the sleeves at his wrists. A hint of deep blue ruffles showed at the neck and dusted the backs of his hands. The jacket itself was so laced with gold thread as to appear luminous in the early moonlight. As always, he wore leather gloves, this pair embroidered on the backs with gold thread.
Raoul bowed to her. “I had the honor of dining with your king.”
Sylvie blinked. This was unusual. Unless it was a large state dinner including most of the court, a visitor such as Raoul would not have been asked to dine with the king. “And was he in good health?” Sylvie asked.
Raoul shrugged elegantly and held out his hand to her. Sylvie took it and allowed him to draw her closer and tuck her hand into his arm. Over his usual leather, she smelled wine and cinnamon and the fresh lemon juice that would have been squeezed into each cup. She could feel the heat of his body through her dress. He said, “He was not as interested in my maps as I had hoped.”
“Maps,” Sylvie said. Whatever she had been expecting, it had not been maps.
Raoul began walking; Sylvie walked with him. “It’s no secret any longer,” he said. “I make maps. King Julien expressed an interest, after one of his courtiers brought me to his attention. I was invited by the courtier, who instructed Lord Odell to look after me. I was eager to accept. A royal commission could finance a number of journeys for me. Now, however, I am not sure a commission will be forthcoming. It’s a great pity. I have no wish to return home. I am not sure they would welcome me there again.”
Which courtier had invited him? Lord Odell was close to Lady Diamanta. Though Lord Odell’s role at court meant he could easily have been assigned that duty by any number of people. “You are a merchant, then.”
“I am a cartographer. That’s quite a different thing.
Many consider it dangerous. If not to themselves, then to their business.”
“You sell maps,” Sylvie pointed out. She felt foolish. She had constructed all sorts of complex explanations for his presence, but he was merely here to sell his services. Or was he? He had some secret. She knew it.
“Perhaps.” Raoul covered her hand with his gloved one and gently squeezed. It was a small gesture, but his glove lent a pleasant extra layer to the sensation. She was sorry when he released his grip, using the pressure of his arm to guide her down a curving path. He said softly, “I did not mislead you about my interest in you.”
“Instantly formed, I presume,” she said. “You approached me before my carriage had drawn away.”
He looked down at her. At last, he said, “I greeted every lady who arrived.”
Unexpectedly, she felt a twinge of disappointment. Then she remembered neither she nor Alys nor her “footman” had seen Raoul with anyone else, not even anyone who might have been his court sponsor. Though she admitted to herself a strong curiosity about who that sponsor might have been. “Why are you with me now, then?”
He grinned, and she felt the same stunning effect as the first time she’d seen him smile. “You were the only lady who spoke to me in return.”
“Surely not.”
“I have no status here, and clearly did not travel in state,” he said. “It was not only that you spoke to me. I liked the way you walked, not a frivolous court lady, but someone comfortable and honest in her body. And I enjoyed sparring with you. I…I am far from home, and I sensed that you and I, we might understand one another.”
Sylvie had no answer to that.
He grinned. “Also, I have a taste for arrogant blonde women.”
This path had no colored lanterns, and the pristine-white gravel gave way to hard-packed earth. Abruptly, their steps were silenced, and the evergreen hedges seemed to lean in on them, concealing them from view and softening the sounds of distant voices. To make his desires even more clear, Raoul slipped his arm around her waist.
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