Perhaps the pirates and the witches were right to worship the sea. The sea did not die. The sea was no man.
Each of the Imperial Guard saluted the Emperor’s visage as they passed. Evelyn’s fear leaned into her, and though she regarded it as a silly tradition, she kissed her fingers and touched her heart, the proper salute of women.
And that was when one crucial detail made itself obvious — her hands were free.
If she were under arrest, then why would they leave her hands unbound? She looked to the men around her and saw that at least two of them carried shackles.
The relief she felt then was immediate and profound. Her heartbeat settled into its normal pattern, a metronome rather than an explosion. Even the way the soldiers flanked her was not that of arrest — it was that of protection.
Still, then. Why the rough treatment? She was a lady, and this was not proper treatment of a lady.
As if hearing her thoughts, the young lieutenant caught Evelyn’s eye and gave her what she could tell he meant to be a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, my lady,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
Though etiquette dictated that she should return the soldier’s smile — for who was more revered in the Empire than instruments of the Emperor? — she could not bring herself to do it. She had never been thus treated in her whole life, and the indignity of it rankled her. She wanted to yell at this young lieutenant, shame him for the fear he had caused her. But when she turned to glare at him, she found he was already looking at her, his face still split into that smile of his, nearly as discomfiting as the events of the night themselves.
She knew that smile. It was the smile many young men gave her. When she walked by, or when they met her. It was that smile she was always expected to return. It was that smile that had nothing to do with her but was — somehow — her burden to bear.
The urge to roll her eyes was enormous, and the effort required to ignore it was gargantuan. She would need to play the proper lady, at least until she sorted out what was happening to her. After that, she wondered, how improper was it — really — to slap a man in the face for staring?
She wished she hadn’t saluted the First Emperor and his stupid, scowling face.
Evelyn could tell where they were headed the moment she saw it. While most of the homes on the Floating Islands’ topside were built similarly to those carved into the sides of the cliffs — small and white, plaster with red-tiled roofs, colorful doors and windowpanes — one building loomed, enormous, over them all.
It was built in the style of the 900th Emperor, with eaves that curved heavenward and stone lions prowling the parapets, and was easily two or three stories tall. Several towers flanked the main building, which looked for all the world like a palace, or a prison, amid the otherwise small and modest homes.
Around it, a tall stone wall stood guard against all who might seek entrance, save for the gate, which was iron, spiked, and surrounded by even more soldiers. And everywhere it was gray stone, as unyielding and cold as Emperor Henry himself. The keep loomed like a giant.
The guards at the gate saluted the young lieutenant and opened the doors without question. And though the discipline of the men was as uniform as their posture, Evelyn could feel their eyes pass over her with curiosity and interest. It made her skin crawl.
“Please notify Commander Callum that we have arrived,” the lieutenant barked, and one of the younger men scurried off to see his orders done.
Commander Callum. It was a moment before the name’s full significance hit Evelyn. First, the realization that she was on her way to meet her fiancé. A new horror washed over her. She’d thought that in escaping with a pirate in the middle of the night, she was somehow absolved from this whole terrible arrangement. Florian had only rescued her from slavery, what, a day ago? And already she would bear new shackles.
Second, hadn’t he retired from the Imperial Guard? And she’d heard no mention of his being a commander. He certainly kept himself well guarded. Suspicion washed over her like a cold wind, chilling her.
The lieutenant turned then to Evelyn and bowed a curt, polite bow. “Please see that you are as gracious with the commander as you have been with me, and hopefully we shall see each other again under happier circumstances.” He smiled broadly, the easily confident smile of a young man entitled to the world.
What a slappable face he had. She would enjoy that. Or, better, waking him up in the middle of the night, marching him for an hour in the cold with no shoes on, and then reminding him to be polite.
Evelyn said nothing, and the lieutenant nodded at his men, who led Evelyn into her future husband’s keep.
The captain slurped his soup, splattering the fine ivory silk of his absurdly enormous cravat. Why he had called Rake into his cabin while he was eating was a fine mystery Rake did not wish to solve.
Everything about the captain reeked of excess. Excess fabric, excess food, excess cruelty, excess drink, excess theatricality.
Rake hated it. Hated him.
He sat as he was bidden to do in the seat across from the captain’s wide wooden desk. The captain, for his part, made no effort to hurry through his meal. Or to tell Rake the purpose of calling him. Aside from his disgust in watching the captain eat, there was also the issue of the smell. Cook was really scraping the barrel these days if even the captain was eating the foul gray soup Cook claimed was fish. Rake ate only hardtack and apples. Once they got to the Forbidden Isles, there would be tortoise meat, fresh and filling. But until then — until the Pirate Supreme found them — well, hardtack and apples it was.
Finished, the captain smacked his lips once and then licked them with his fat pink tongue.
“I should think you would know why I have called you into this, my fine cabin, on this most excellent day.”
Excess words.
Rake said nothing.
“You don’t have a guess? A hypothesis? An estimate of what your beloved captain may want?” The captain shook his head at Rake condescendingly. “You know, they say the very best help anticipates the needs of their superiors, Rake. And as my most loyal and competent subordinate, I had hoped you would have anticipated my need on this occasion.”
Rake said nothing.
“Ah, you are efficient with your words, my man, I will give you that!” He shook a finger at Rake and chuckled. It was clear from the maddening grin on his face that he laughed at Rake’s expense. “Well. Perhaps you have not heard the rumors.”
He waited, looking at Rake expectantly. The Dove was always rife with rumors. Which one the captain could possibly mean eluded Rake.
“Do you mean the one that you’re crooked?” Rake asked. “Because I’ve already told the men to stop with all that nonsense, per your wishes last time that circulated.”
The captain shook his head. “No. Try again.”
Rake did his best to contain an exasperated sigh. His duties aboard the ship may have amounted to a sham, but he still wished to attend to them. “OK. The one that Cook slips bilge rats into the soup and tells us it’s fish?”
Captain coughed into his hand. He looked, Rake thought, a little green. He had not heard that one, apparently.
“No. Although do check on that.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“No, I mean the one about the Pirate Supreme.”
Rake said nothing. This time, it was not out of annoyance. Silently, he accounted for every moment he’d attended to the Supreme’s business aboard the Dove. Who could have seen anything? Who could have discerned it for what it actually was? The creaking of the ship seemed extraordinarily loud, as did the sound of blood pumping in his ears, as did the whoosh of his own breath in and out of his nose.
But Rake was a fine actor. Externally, he knew, he looked the same as he had the moment before.
“I have not heard that one, sir.”
“Oh, do strap in, it’s an exciting one,” the captain said. His voice was less genial now. Rake could sense his fear or his anger — h
e could not tell which — bubbling beneath his calm veneer. “It seems the Pirate Supreme has taken to punishing those who capture mermaids.”
“They always have.”
“Yes, not very effectively, right? But Cook heard a rumor in Crandon, that our noble regent has adopted a new tack in this quest. Namely, the planting of operatives within the midst of crews known to pull mermaids ashore.”
Rake said nothing.
“It is no great secret that I have tasted mermaid’s blood.” This was a gross understatement. The captain had drunk so much of it, killed so many, that his own memory was nearly as eroded as the Sea’s. His name had been lost years ago. Not that it mattered. Being the Nameless Captain had its benefits.
“And so,” the captain continued, “I am, of course, lightly concerned. Surely, the Pirate Supreme would miss my ample tithes. But our majesty has a mind to chase down those who would indulge in the Sea’s finest treat . . .” He drummed his fingers absently, lost in the memories of his own debauchery, Rake guessed. “Well, that cannot stand. We will need a new Pirate Supreme if that’s the case.”
Rake snorted. “You mean to depose the Supreme?” This was a curious turn of events, and fortunate, too. If the captain sought to make war, Rake could lead the Dove right to the Supreme and their fleet. All his years of subterfuge now seemed incredibly complex for so simple an operation.
“Perhaps. But first, we need to vet the ship for operatives.”
Rake’s heart sank. There was no love lost between Rake and the crew, but still, he did not wish to question or torture them purposelessly. And that was exactly what he’d need to do. With the passengers turned prisoners, the sailors were likely to take out any frustrations they had upon them. There would be blood on the Dove.
“As you wish, sir.”
After being cut down from the noose, Rake had been given a day to collect his thoughts in the drafty prison of the stronghold, before being called in front of the Supreme once more.
The Supreme’s court was a seemingly makeshift one. The treasures that served as tithes — golden cups and silver diadems, infinite coins and jewels — were piled against the walls without any discernible sense or organization. The Supreme’s throne, however, was just a chair. Just a plain chair, made of driftwood. Yet it was surrounded by unimaginable wealth. Rake could not tell if this was laziness or profundity.
He stood before the Supreme, his hands no longer bound.
“I have heard about you, red-haired Rake,” the Supreme said. Their voice boomed through the court. They seemed more royal today than they had the day before. They were dressed better, for one thing. And even sitting upon the absurdly plain chair, upon the dais, over their crews and their captains, their wealth and their finery, they carried the nobility of royalty well.
Rake, for his part, could not imagine how the Supreme had ever heard about him. He was just a sailor. The Pirate Supreme, on the other hand, was one of the only forces standing between Imperials and outright world domination. Tustwe was — and probably would always be — independent. And sure, small nations did their best to resist colonization. But those little countries were no match for Imperial might. Quark was evidence of that.
But the Emperor’s fleet had only so many ships, and the Known World was big. The Pirate Supreme had used this truth to their benefit for years now, upsetting trading routes and altogether blocking the conquest of the Red Shore and — of course — the Forbidden Isles.
The Pirate Supreme was responsible for the continued freedom of the Sea.
“When it became apparent that your captain not only allowed but sought mermaids for capture, your crew was infiltrated.” The Supreme motioned and Manuel, the gunner, stepped forward. Rake almost laughed out loud. Manuel was older than most of the men, and quiet, often teased for his introversion. He never partook, Rake realized, of the blood. But neither had he ever protested. He had simply watched the men, as he watched Rake now, from the right-hand side of the Supreme.
“You,” Rake said. Stupid.
Manuel tipped his head to Rake. “At your service,” he said.
“He has written to me, as all my operatives do, to keep me abreast of his mission. But also to bring sailors of value to my attention.”
Rake looked at Manuel, who smiled back at him. They’d always gotten along. Not only because Rake valued silence and Manuel was willing to share it. But also because they had both, quietly and efficiently, gone about their duties next to each other. Privately, Rake had believed Manuel to be the only good man in the crew. Certainly the most competent.
“As you said, you are a fine actor. And I have need of your skills.” The Supreme stood and took a step toward Rake. “Would you pledge your life to me as an operative, to exercise my will, for the good of pirates and for the good of the Sea?”
Manuel nodded his encouragement. “Let your life have purpose, boy,” he whispered.
Rake did not have to think about it. No better offer could have been made.
“Yes,” Rake said.
The Supreme smiled. “So eager. You should know, this life offers little reward.”
“And a high likelihood of an early demise,” Manuel added.
Rake bit back a smile. Death did not scare him. Death was his constant companion, dogging him since the day his mother fell. So far as he could see, he had nothing to lose. Everything that mattered to him had already been taken at the end of an Imperial sword, all those years ago in Quark.
“It seems to me,” Rake said slowly, “that all lives worth living bear those risks.”
The Supreme laughed, large and loud, filling the room with their mirth. “I see what you mean, Manuel,” they said. “This one’s got the right attitude.”
Flora pushed the wet rag across the stone floor of the witch’s kitchen, but she paid no mind to her work. The cost of her stay was to do chores as Xenobia assigned them, and it was a price Flora was more than willing to pay. She had nowhere else to go — she’d abandoned her brother and had in turn been abandoned by Evelyn. She was not capable of love, apparently, and so she could not receive it. So staying with Xenobia made as much sense as anything. She was no stranger to chores, and frankly, these ones were easy.
Grit from the floor caught in her fingernails, and she felt her fingers prune from the water. Still, it was the cleanest she’d been, maybe in her whole life. Xenobia had a wooden tub that she filled, improbably, from hot water delivered via the elevator outside her door. It was as luxurious a life as Flora had ever known. She was clean and warm and well fed.
She did not care.
For her part, Xenobia was content to cook at the hearth, and the smells she produced made Flora’s mouth water, despite her lack of appetite. She’d never been less hungry in her life, but the smell — of meat and lime and onion — was too enticing to be ignored.
“That’s some shoddy work,” Xenobia said. Flora looked about her. The floor was wet in the exact arc of her arm span around her, nowhere else. The witch was right.
Useless.
“I’m sorry,” Flora said. She made to scrub more diligently, but the witch motioned for her to sit at the table, which Flora did. Xenobia ladled out some stew from the hearth into a wooden bowl. Flora’s mouth watered. She was more hungry than she’d realized.
“Have you thought more on the story I told you?”
Flora did not respond. It had been, she thought, more like advice than a story, and she was in no mood to receive wisdom. Her heart ached. What did Xenobia know of her heart? Only that it was not unique. Only that pain was universal. It was not, Flora thought, advice she cared to hear at the moment.
She took a spoonful of the soup, which was too hot. It burned her tongue. But it was delicious, and it warmed her belly like a hug. She nodded her enjoyment to Xenobia, who stared back at her appraisingly.
“Powerful things, stories. If you care to listen to them.”
“I have no patience for stories,” Flora said. She had not meant to say it quite so bluntly,
but she had not the fortitude for pretense, not anymore. When the walls of Florian had come crumbling down around her, she’d found she had little strength left in the rubble. She could not bear the thought of more lessons, more tales. Not after Evelyn.
Xenobia laughed her cutting laugh. “What a little shit you are,” she said. “Come into my house, tell me you have no time for my craft.” She lifted an eyebrow at Flora, all challenge and vinegar. “Do you know how long I have had to wait for you to get here?”
Flora put down her spoon. “Excuse me?”
“What would you give?” Xenobia asked. Her voice was a whisper, a breeze of promises too impossible to keep. “To have agency in this world? To see your will done, to control your own story? To be powerful? Free?”
Anything.
“I have nothing to give,” Flora said finally. It was true.
“A lie,” Xenobia replied tartly. “You could give me your patience. Or your respect. Your belief. Or your love.” Her eyes burned into Flora, and she could feel the heat of it, the fire of the witch’s gaze on her skin.
“What’s in it for you?” Flora asked. She knew enough of witches to know they were not selfless.
Xenobia’s eyes softened, and for one strange moment Flora feared she might cry. But the emotion was there and then gone so quickly Flora could not possibly name it. “I have nothing to lose and everything to gain from your power. That is all you need know.”
Flora’s heart beat in her mouth, the distant drumming of unease, of nausea.
In her mind, the song echoed:
Two souls fight
For love, to be
Perhaps, she thought, she could use the power to get Evelyn back. To win her. To show her that she was as powerful as any rich man who sold silks, who bent his knee to the Emperor.
“How do I — how can I do as you say?”
Xenobia smiled and put her hand over Flora’s. It was a motherly gesture, a comforting gesture, a gesture of love. It did not fit Xenobia, and Flora did her best to ignore what it stirred in her. “You’ll listen to my stories. You will keep them in your heart.”
The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea Page 14