She raised a hand to cover a cough and nodded. "What would you like to know?" As Van Reiver opened his mouth, she added, "I should give thanks for the rescue. I apologise for not doing so earlier as I saw your West Spires flag."
"Err, you need not apologise, Lady. I thought you were in poorer health when our man pulled back the sailcloth," he admitted. It was more than a little strange to be having a conversation with someone he'd thought might be a corpse not that long ago.
"Your doctor. He filled us with water and fresh bread from the off. Proper water," she added, looking bitterly at the clear contents of her glass. "Not that filth we've been adrift on for a week."
"A week?" he queried, scratching in the notebook and smudging the ink.
"Yes, eight days. It is a matter of import I speak to your captain," she said, taking another gulp. "We were taking passage from Aversus on an Atlantean great galley—dromus, I think you call them." She frowned, her sunburn furrowing. "I believe they called the ship the Quarto, but I'm not positive. My father had a rendezvous at Levant, then an appointment at Ardover. That is all I am prepared to say of the matter, but as you see, neither occurred."
Van Reiver nodded as he scribbled the pertinent details, dipping his quill in the well-used ink bottle and blackening his fingers. Fuck's sake, was he literate? Angry with himself, he forgot the next question to ask and covered himself with a cough. "Captain Bullsen will add where we found you to our log. What happened on your ship to put you in the boat?"
"An attack, but I did not see it occur, you understand? The captain had tried to head into a fog bank near a red marker buoy, I understand. We had entered it, but the front of the ship was burning. When we got on deck, they were trying to extinguish it and it wasn't going well. I'm not sure if it was him, or another of his officers who put us in the boat with a sailor named Popul. It happened quickly, with a lot of shouting and arguing.
"We tied ourselves to the buoy and kept silent as the ship sailed off. A short while later, several skiffs rowed past chasing the ship. We were fortunate not to be discovered, and later we heard a distant explosion." Her mouth quirked, "I must visit the temples when we dock to thank the Gods for our deliverance. Unless you have a priest aboard?"
"That sounds unpleasant." He shook his head as a negative to her question and ignored her frown. The shipboard priest was one saga he was not prepared to go into—not sober, at any rate. "What occurred next?"
"A storm, an atrocious one on the second night. We had torrents of rain and horrific lightning. I had a safety rope tied around me by the tiller, but there was nothing I could do. I watched and held tight as the waves tried to pull us away from the buoy or slam us against it. The rope snapped after one immense wave. Popul tried to fix a new rope and was flung overboard." Another sip. A fresh pause and her memory, he could only assume, caused a pulse to beat in her neck.
"My father tried to get him back aboard, but something big attacked Popul. Such terrible screams as his blood frothed everywhere. We tried to pull him back, but he dragged my father overboard in the turmoil. I used the rope from the buoy and threw it to my father. Somehow, I got him back in, but Popul vanished. I collected the rain from a couple of days ago and kept us both shaded. If only I could have done more. I thought we would die." Her voice fell away as her head sagged.
"Without supplies, that is all you could have done. There are plenty of sea serpents, sharks and other things it is best not to imagine in the amber. One of them may have snatched the man. They circle boats for a glimmer of opportunity. I suspect Popul was unlucky and your father lucky, as any kill attracts more of them. He owes you his life."
"We both owe you ours," Carla acknowledged.
"Simple luck we spotted you. Our quarterdeck lookout, Jenkans, has eyes like a seahawk." He felt a grin form as she smiled at the name. His nerves calmed for a moment, then roiled at the decision he'd considered. Their conversation a welcome distraction to guilt, he felt at ease now with his choice to go against superstition and bring them aboard. It could be them—him—one day. "He spotted you on my midday watch and Captain Bullsen agreed to stop. Did your father swallow much water?"
"I don't know. Some, probably? It was rough, and he hasn't been well. Will it be a problem?"
"Possibly, Robsin is who to ask. I imagine that is troubling him and why he'll check on you. Your father's breathing sounds laboured to me. That's a common symptom of someone in difficulties from the acidic sea, along with sore eyes and skin. Sailing upon the amber is not forgiving. The actual curse of the sea is the damn acid injuring the lungs. It's to do with our chests being weak on the inside, rather than the acid being nasty beyond a brief exposure." Van Reiver kept silent on the second complication being the lungs filling with fluids and stifling breathing. A slow death. Robsin could have that chore. It was bad enough inspecting the decks and the men.
"Gods! That filthy water will finish him." Bitterness tinged her eyes as she glanced at her father. The only evidence of life was his thin chest moving in shallow, rattling breaths. He lay like a corpse—like he must have been in the boat—just lacking the gumption to recognise the futility of his next breath.
Her composure impressed Van Reiver. She'd been alone for days, suffering discomfort and worry for her father. She'd had little hope of rescue and no small likelihood of her attackers returning by the boatload. What had spawned the attack? No sane man would row across the ocean, so whoever they were would require a sizeable ship, or a remote haven for a base. Now the coin dropped into his purse. He understood why Bullsen was unsettled and not reading adventure yarns in his cabin. Carla's exploding dromus and clandestine activities with precocious allies would not improve his temperament until Tryphon had friendly land in sight, their fleet in sight, or the last pirate was burning on their beam ends.
"It is too early to say, Lady Carla. Is it okay to call you that, or should I call you baroness?" He used her name to soften the blow as his mind flickered over possibilities. Seeing her almond-shaped violet eyes moisten, he worried he'd been harsh. "The doctor will know." It was a lame reassurance even as he spoke it. Guiltily, he passed across his kerchief. She hid her face, her emotions crumbling. He asked as soft as he could, "Is there anything you need, beyond the meeting?"
"Lady is fine. The hint of nobility and his illness is normally enough to keep my father's presence low key, and I am not one for the fawning with his influence. He needs to be at his rendezvous before your deckhands gossip with the dockyard workers. Do not look shocked, I understand how men and ships work—to a point. I would appreciate washing and beg a change of clothing. I have my case, but the boat flooded, and we lost things," she sniffed, blinking her eyes clear and taking in a deep composing breath. "I suspect it's ruined."
"We should have thought of that. It is rare to pick up unexpected guests—usually we shoot at the unexpected and some survivors lack a desire to step onto our deck." Van Reiver grimaced at the oversight. Not for them, but for himself, as Bullsen was free with his verbal whippings at the moment.
"So, we are the first unexpected. Two dirty members of our pampered nobility?" she teased with a snort, a glimmer of natural humour penetrating weariness when she dabbed her eyes with his kerchief to smear the grime on her face into new swirls.
Van Reiver blinked, an odd tingle caressing his spine as she spoke, as though he'd run bare-arsed through a blizzard. Her reply was exactly what he'd thought a moment earlier. Verbatim, every single syllable, including inflexion and humour. He disliked the nobility he had met as an officer. He loathed the sneering, the backbiting, the condescendence, and the patronage to anyone of lower status with a use. Even aboard Tryphon, an individual like Comace radiated an aura far over his rank. Dagmar was the only exception, and his family barely counted as nobility, but this woman was. She was also... different. Her father wielded unimaginable influence at court, especially over someone of his lowly rank, but here she was, chatting as her composure improved. Shivering as though chilled, he spoke as though his w
ords travelled across a great distance.
"I can't argue, Lady Carla. Are you a mind reader?"
Carla laughed. Van Reiver felt paranoid as his mind churned. He had to be careful with Comace lurking at his back. He hadn't spoken out of turn, had he? Why? He'd swear on oath she jumped at his remark, and it wasn't like he'd swore in her face, or slapped his cock on the table.
"I'll arrange for clothes and a wash for you." Van Reiver ransacked the uncomfortable silence for something to say and stood with a sense of unease. Opening the wardroom door, he found Jimi loitering. The diminutive ship's boy fidgeted against the dark panelling of the aftcastle, tracing patterns on the grain with a wine-stained finger.
"Jimi, ask the quartermaster if he can arrange clothes for our two guests." Bobbing his head, Jimi bolted. "Jimi!" Van Reiver called after him, causing the boy to halt in a squeak. "See your father and ask for wash-water, cloths and towels." Jimi nodded again and scampered off hare-like, small feet thudding.
Van Reiver returned to find the woman dozing. All his outstanding questions died on the tip of his tongue as she gave a soft snore. Her earlier tears left light streaks on her cheek, pressed tight against her forearm. With a deep sigh of irritation, he took another blanket off the pile, shook it and draped it over her. He removed her letter to read it again and muffled a curse. If it was a hoax, it was daring beyond comprehension. How could you position a boat at the exact time and place to trip over? It left her story being the only option. Gods, some story. While he knew their origin and stopover at two of the myriad Atlantean outposts scattered across Sanctuary, their ultimate destination matched Tryphon's own—Ardover, where they were to become the armada flagship. What was the spymaster's mission? Her mission? Would it complicate their own? The spymaster could be the reason for the attack on their dromus and thinking at this level was giving him a headache. Van Reiver glared at his meandering penmanship and inked fingers. Shit. What else could he mess up? His eyes dropped on her envelope. Fuck it, Bullsen could do the deciding, he'd have Jimi drop it off when he returned.
3
An hour later, a presentable Van Reiver sat in one of Bullsen's elegant lacquered walnut chairs in the well-lit day room. He took a sip of a rare glass of the captain's port, before examining the ruddiness in the light. Red like blood. He shuddered at the premonition from an overactive imagination and nursed it in his lap. Bullsen slouched in his favourite chair, frowning astern at their wake. Absently he handed a glass to First Mate Sithric, his snow-grey eyes clearing, and glanced at his navigator. He straightened, then looked up at Morrel, his secretary, and nodded once. A dismissal. Moving as silently as his feather-like build would suggest, the lank-haired man slipped out with Carla's letter in one delicate hand, rubbing at a dark scraggly beard with the other.
"Did you find out anything new, Edouard?" Bullsen asked, his voice orotund off the panelling.
Van Reiver nodded. It took less than a minute for the navigator to recount his investigation and her request. He frowned, looking between the two men, mentally picturing Tryphon's recent course and ignoring the tightness of his best seagoing coat as churning nerves turned it into a straitjacket.
"Backtracking her story against our log, it was the storm we clipped six days ago. If something damaged their ship, and it suffered an explosion as claimed, it did not return. I suspect it sank at worst, or ran for shelter at the nearest Atlantean outpost. Their attire suggests status and wealth to match the letter I sent, and I feel it is a strange tactic their captain left them. The lady had an unusual but credible tale and was insistent to speak to you. If he is the prince's spymaster, it is a worrying development."
"Quarto. That name sounds familiar." Sithric mused. The narrow eyes in his thin piratical face flicked from Van Reiver to the captain as though for a hint as he fiddled with an end of his waxed moustache.
"It should, Number One," Bullsen remarked. "We transferred our duke to her when we went to Germania. It is a fast diplomatic courier from Ichyra, then. You are correct too, of course, Edouard. Also correct in stopping. I have noted it in my log, so good job."
"Ahh," Sithric nodded, thrumming long fingers on the arms of his chair. "Umm, the girl did not know who they were, or why they ended up deposited on the amber?"
"She must have got the skiff from the lost sailor. She dozed off with exhaustion before I could ask, or with what Robsin gave her to drink. Perhaps I needed better questions? Her letter was a shock, being honest." Lame. That fucking word just wouldn't go away, would it? Every time he scrutinised his scribbles, they came up short when compared to Tryphon's unspoken, lofty standards and Bullsen's judgemental looks.
Bullsen gave him a judgemental look. Again.
"That's inconvenient. I dislike such cloak and dagger stuff on the eve of war, and why not send us to collect them in the first place?" Sithric murmured. Like Van Reiver, he looked to Bullsen, only in pointed diversion, "Do you have anything to fill in the blanks, sir?"
"Not really, I agree with you, unless they needed a non-Spires hull." Bullsen confessed, shaking grey-whiskered jowls between sips of port. "Their boat could well come from a fast galley. Minimal supplies, some weathered sail to collect rain, but insufficient to provide effective shelter, and no mast. A dromus as target practice out here concerns me. Maybe our admiralty board ordered us out here as a screen, and if so, it was a botched order in not telling us to rendezvous. Hmm, are you attracted to another lovely face, First Mate? Selionmael must work overtime to keep you 'entertained' this year."
"Pirates? Perhaps they ventured south with our invasion fleet assembling to burn them out? Maybe block any reinforcements from the southern Atlantean fleet?" Van Reiver interrupted, speaking the thought that first came to mind.
Sithric shook his head and offered Van Reiver a faint smile. "Doubtful, Edouard, not for a ship that size and trading hulls are further north. There's too many crew to take on for irregulars. So, not profitable, unless you've men to spare, or you're a practitioner for Krauag, The Slayer."
"The fire is odd," Bullsen interjected, shifting his hefty frame within his creaking chair. "You do that to sink a ship, and it isn't something you want when jumping boarding for loot. You don't get plunder if the vessel sinks before unloading. You go for the sails to distract the crew and pick them off.
"It could be a way of controlling the crew and getting a foothold if you're desperate," mused Sithric, running with Bullsen's thought. "If you fire the hatches at night, you'll trap many of the deck crew below with the rowers on a dromus. It would have to be splendid shooting though."
"Possible, but impractical." Bullsen finished his port and set his glass down. Van Reiver glanced at the bottle, a third of it swaying to the cerrack's motion. As Tryphon had been at sea near continuously for the last four months, their private stocks were taking a beating. Their quartermaster would be a busy man upon landfall, with a minor fortune from hundreds of thirsty men.
"I want to know what they are up to; it appears too well organised for my liking. With a hold of alchemical munitions for the expedition to Freeport, I fear we are a tempting target on a strategic level. We have our banners, speed and deck artillery. The support fleet lacks speed and artillery, making it more vulnerable to piratical mayhem as we will go hard. If I were in their blood-stained boots, I'd come out, concentrate and hit the support. I would harass our logistical preparation in the Western Ocean and run for open water.
"It is the reason we are out here. Look, the western Atlantean fleet is busy with the Reviled Ones in the Southern Blighted Islands. The Atlantean emperor will not pull their fleet and leave the Knights of Sanctuary and his legions exposed against the deadites. Their western fleet is the largest afloat, but their eastern one is spread thin around their outposts and trade routes. Their ambassadors are making deals with every nation as they do not want a war elsewhere. The Spires fleet is in the Andoram Sea and Prince Gradil is sitting with the small East Spires fleet in the Inner Sea as a warning to the Babylonians to play nice. I he
ard a rumour as we sailed about Danska moving into the Gremlik Sea, but that could be gossip to soothe worried ears and I care little for the east.
"Gentlemen, there's plenty of mischief in these westerly waters, and no peace in my thirty years of crisscrossing the amber to police it. We are the hammer on this sea. I have had to run us ragged since launch, while others have been refitted and spread to the ships in building. We departed in a hurry with these supplies, with the prince changing our orders and cutting our port time. Damn, not even having our priest replaced does not sit well with me and, gentlemen, is an ill fortune. The lads do not take well to ignoring shipboard superstition, even the ridiculous ones."
Sithric nodded, humouring Bullsen. "I checked with a friend when dropping off our correspondence. The seven temples sent their obligated delegations. Then closed their doors unless Prince Gildan, or Duke Coutray opened Tregallon's coffers. Coutray wouldn't without his father's go ahead. Gildan won't. He took Atlantean gold to police the Tuvala Sea and threw it at our dockyards. It will be a boon in a year, or two with another hammer, but no help to us." He gulped his drink and stood. "With your permission, I'll double the watch, add extra lookouts, and brief our esteemed artillery mate. He is watch officer and vertical—unless you prefer me to take over?"
Bullsen nodded at the former and shook his head at the latter. "We could give him more brandy bottles, to make our decks tricky for boarders. Make this the last time his conduct slips, First. If he beats another cabin boy, I will catapult him from my ship myself."
"Am I to pass that along, sir? I had words earlier, and from almost breaking my bloody neck yesterday I know he has enough now the casks are empty…" Sithric feigned helpfulness in the doorway, his mischievous expression looking almost menacing in the stretching shadow from the stern light.
Bullsen wagged a finger. "If you persist, First Mate, your overdue promotion to a command a tub on the slips will never occur. You are right about the prince's coffers being selective, I can spare him your captain's wages."
THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1) Page 3