Shadow Road

by A. E. Pennymaker

  "Sorry sir," he blurted as he doffed his cap in my direction, saluted Arramy, and went clattering back out again.

  The captain watched him go.

  I couldn't help but grin. "It's refreshing to know boys are the same everywhere."

  The captain didn't seem amused. His jaw tensed, and he lowered his gaze. "Dinner is served at six bells in the Loftman's Gallery," he said stiffly, stepping out of the doorway. Then he was gone, striding through the bridge room and out onto the quarterdeck.

  And just like that, I was well and truly alone.

  I remained there in the narrow space between the berth and the wall of drawers, listening to... nothing.

  I almost went rushing out after the captain. For the first time since boarding the Galvania, there wasn't anyone sharing the same space, and the silence was stretching to swallow me whole, a solid, physical, malevolent thing.

  A shiver of panic slid down my spine. My heartbeat began to thunder in my ears. My breath shortened; tears stung my eyelids. I didn't want to cry. Crying wouldn't change how lost and helpless I was. It wouldn't bring back my father, it wouldn't take me back home where I was trusted and loved. Crying certainly wouldn't make any of this any less confusing or frightening. I would not cry.

  I reached out and snatched at the handle of the nearest bureau drawer, yanking it so hard the thing hit the end of its guiderail with a loud clap. I inhaled sharply and did it again with the next drawer down. Then I got my bundle of belongings and began unpacking, ruthlessly opening and slamming drawers, tearing that stillness apart. With every vicious physical movement, I cranked the lid down on the well of anguish opening up inside me, winching it in tighter and tighter until I was hollow and cold again.

  Then I went still, staring down at my things resting neatly at the bottom of the top drawer, all packed primly together even after all of that furious rearrangement. They had seemed so loose and disorderly when they were divided up.

  At one point in my life, I had enough clothing to fill two such wall-bureaus, as well as a dresser, and a closet large enough to walk around in. It had taken four drawers to hold nothing but my unmentionables. Now everything I owned fit in a single two-foot wide drawer.

  At least I had clothes, and I was alive to wear them.

  With a shaky sigh, I unbuttoned my father's heavy coat and shrugged out of it, hanging it on the peg by the door before braving the mirror.

  I took one look at my reflection and sighed again. My hair had always been one of my best features. Mrs. Fosspotter used to say it was like molasses-taffy ripple, dark and wavy, flowing down my back in gleaming waves. I hadn't had a decent bath in weeks. Now it was a hopeless mess, all the waves turned to frizz, the top layer bleached to caramel by the sun. And my face... I had to swallow some pride. After so much time spent running about without a hat or veil, I was nearly as tan as some of the sailors, with a touch of windburn to boot. My skin felt like sandpaper and my lips were chapped.

  I sneered, then stuck my tongue out at the sea-roughened waif in the glass. It wouldn't do any good, feeling sorry for myself. It wasn't as if there was anything I could do about it, and there certainly wasn't anyone I wanted to impress on this ship.

  Still. There was no sense in being untidy. I washed my face and spent a few minutes re-braiding my hair and wrapping it up in a neat knot at my nape. I looked marmish, but at least that was more appropriate to my real age, which was infinitely better than having to face the captain looking like a schoolgirl again, with my hair trailing down my back in a wind-tossed tangle.

  The timekeep above the little writing desk read quarter past six bells, so I changed out of my damp grey overskirt and into my mud-brown but blessedly dry overskirt. Then I threw on my cloak and sallied forth to find this Loftman's Gallery.

  22. Surprisingly Well

  25th of Uirra, Continued

  The Loftman's Gallery was a fancy name for the officer's mess: a long room situated down one side of the quarterdeck, with a bank of windows that opened to the sea.

  The Angpixen didn't have anything like it. There had been an absurdly luxurious dining hall for the officers, but it wasn't used for anything else. On the Stryka, the whole Gallery was designed to be dismantled and stowed out of the way. The trestle table could be raised into the ceiling and the walls could be folded back to join the Gallery with the rooms on either end. Four light cannons hunched along the two outside walls, only a swivel away from being put into action through removable windows. The sight and smell of oiled iron and spent powder was yet another reminder that the Stryka was meant for war, not civilian comfort.

  The marine on guard duty opened the door when he saw me and gestured me politely through.

  The captain was sitting at the head of a long metal dining table, six of his officers ranging down either side, and from the abrupt silence that fell as I came in, it was clear that I was interrupting an intense conversation. All of the men turned to look at me, their expressions a mixture of reserve, weariness, distrust, annoyance... and interest.

  Slowly, the captain got to his feet, the other men following suit a half-second later.

  "Miss Westerby," the captain said, his tone brusque. "I believe you've already met Commander Kyro. This is Marine lieutenant commander Gorson, Lieutenant Hedwidge-Farrow, Lieutenant Chalb, Lineman Arkney, and Lineman Mannemarra."

  I gave them all a wary nod, managing to use the motion to cover my surprise at the captain's use of my false name. Then I stood there, hesitating in the doorway, unsure what I was supposed to do next. None of my social etiquette lessons had included this particular scenario. As a rule, single women weren't supposed to dine alone with groups of men. In fact, it was assumed they would avoid such things or risk ruining their reputation. So... Did I just walk up and pull out a chair, or...?

  Lineman Mannemarra – the interested one, who stood up quite a bit faster than the others – came to my rescue, eagerly indicating the empty chair next to his at the near end of the table. "Please! Join us, Miss Westerby," he blurted. Then he added an enthusiastic, "Mr. Des'Cready has promised his pork jerk. You won't want to miss it. It's positively sublime."

  I didn't look away from the captain. He nodded slightly, and a cabin boy pulled out the chair for me. I bowed my head in acknowledgement, then moved as gracefully as I could to take my place, using every ounce of control I had to keep from turning on my heel and making for the door. Confrontation was never my favorite pastime, and there was a storm brewing. The commander was practically fuming at the ears, and Lieutenant Chalb refused to look directly at me. I got the distinct impression that neither of them wanted me there, which made me wonder just what the captain had told them about me. Not my real name, it would seem.

  All the men sat back down, then, but there was no return to their discussion. It was Lineman Mannemarra who broke the wall, apparently oblivious to the animosity hanging thick over the other end of the table.

  "Where do you hail from originally, Miss Westerby?" he asked, his clean-shaven face gone quite pink.

  He was the lone man among them willing to be civil, it seemed, so I gave him a polite smile. "Garding, in Edon."

  He beamed. "Really? I'm from up Phennyrre way, myself. Do you know the Smythe-Brassings?"

  "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," I said, unable to keep from glancing at the captain. He was regarding me evenly, his lean face impassive, those pale eyes missing nothing.

  "Oh! They're cousins on my mother's side," Mannemarra said. "Sir Smythe-Brassing owns the Tourman and Smythe-Brassing Bank and Trust in East Lenwynne. You're quite sure you've never met them? They're very social. My cousin, Miss Honrielle Smythe-Brassing, is a veritable paragon of hospitality. Last year she invited our whole division to their summer home in Darrestre. It was quite the happening. The men talked about it for months."

  I was struggling to hide the dull disbelief crowding my thoughts. The lineman was making small talk as if we were at a soiree. Badly. Betha would have labeled him a Flirting Blue Dandy
desperate to impress above his station, and we would have quietly snickered at him behind our fans.

  This was no soiree, I wasn't sitting on the balcony of a ball room, and all the men at that table, including Mannemarra, had committed treason against their own Navy because of me. Because of my father.

  I let my gaze fall to my empty plate, weariness sinking its claws into my shoulders as Lineman Mannemarra rambled on about his days at the military academy, and his assignment to his previous posting, and the privilege it was to have been given this placement when so many others had been eager to have it. Then back again to the Smythe-Brassings and the many favors they had showered upon him.

  It occurred to me that perhaps Mannemarra was the one Arramy was hiding my real identity from, and I had to admit I was thankful.

  Dinner was served shortly; five courses, including dessert. There was more food and better quality than I had seen in weeks, but I couldn't remember ever sitting through a more awkward meal.

  I tried to eat, but it was nearly impossible to make myself chew and swallow anything with my stomach in knots. I settled for sipping at my glass of wine and pushing my food around my plate while wishing I had disobeyed the captain.

  The commander refused to relent in his scrutiny of me; the lieutenant commander glared into his wine glass as if he were locked in mental battle with his Kavarian Red; Lieutenant Chalb examined his place setting, his jaw rigid; Lieutenant H. Farrow still refused to look at me; and the other lineman was fidgeting with his napkin and watching the commander, the Lieutenants, and the lieutenant commander by turns. Meanwhile, the captain finished eating, then loomed at the end of the table, sprawled nonchalantly in his chair, spinning his meat knife end-over-end between his thumb and middle finger, stopping it against the tablecloth first by the tip of the blade, then the end of the grip.

  He was calm. Too calm. As if he was counting down, waiting for something to detonate.

  The eruption was long in coming. All of them except Mannemarra, who kept casting his every thought into the void, ate in unyielding quiet until the trifle dishes had been cleared and the after-dinner sherry had been brought out. Then, finally, the commander did something. He got to his feet, plucked the still-full bottle of sherry out of the deck steward's hands, gave the captain a curt nod, pivoted on his heels, and left without a backward glance. It was a small explosion, but an explosion, nonetheless, and his exit sent a chain reaction rippling through the others.

  The lieutenant commander sat there, his hand lifting his empty sherry glass, his brows lowering into a fierce scowl as his evening drink walked out the door. Then he heaved a sigh, placed his napkin neatly on his plate, nodded to the captain, and followed the commander.

  The lieutenant did the same a moment later, then Lineman Arkney, who very nearly ran from the room.

  "I say, is something going on?" Lineman Mannemarra asked, peering after Arkney.

  The captain studied his knife, turning it to catch the light. "I believe your watch is about to start, Mr. Mannemarra."

  "Oh, I'm not on for another..." Mannemarra started to say, only to begin nodding when the captain shot a glittering stare at him. "Right now," he said, hurrying to his feet. "It was nice to meet you, Miss Westerby. I hope to have the pleasure —”

  "Mr. Mannemarra..." the captain drawled, putting the knife down.

  "Aye, sir," the man choked out. He shot a worried look at me as he yanked his lineman's cockade down over his ears, and then he was gone, his footsteps retreating rapidly as the marine on duty closed the door after him.

  I cleared my throat.

  Silence stretched between us, thick as mud. I couldn't think of anything to say. A minute passed. Another. The click of the timekeep was absurdly loud. At last, after it became apparent that the captain wasn't about to say anything either, I prepared to stand. "Thank you for your hospitality, sir. The food was excellent."

  Evers had just pulled my chair away from the table when the captain's gruff, "Sit down," brought my flight to a halt.

  I froze. Then sank slowly into my seat again, my knees gone shaky. This was it. This was when I found out I had made a huge mistake trusting him.

  The captain let his head loll against the high, padded back of his chair, his eyes narrowing as he regarded me.

  When he didn't do more than that, I rested my elbows on the table and clasped my hands in front of me to hide the fact that my fingers were trembling.

  The captain's brows drew together, which made the grey of his eyes glimmer beneath his lashes. The effect was nerve-wracking, a fact that I was determined not to let him know. "Well... Here I sit," I prodded helpfully when he didn't say anything. I could only hope my tone didn't sound as wispy to him as it did to me.

  He picked up his knife again, idly running his thumb along the edge. His frown deepened a fraction. "You've handled the last few days surprisingly well," he said.

  I went still, some of my apprehension leaving. He was only surprised I was still alive. Why? Because he thought I was just a silly girl? Or because I had survived when so many others had not? I swallowed around a hard lump of guilt, lifted my chin, and quirked a brow. "Careful, Captain. That almost sounded like a compliment."

  He glanced away, his jaw ticking again.

  Was his opinion of me really so poor? I stood. "If there's nothing else..." I said, letting my words trail into an implied question.

  He dropped his knife on the table. "Report to the Council Chamber at the third bell."

  It wasn't a request. I had been given a direct order again, as if I were one of his men. I pinched my lips together and whipped around, striding past the Marine on duty and down the short hallway that connected the Gallery to the Bridge. That was as far as my flight took me. I had to stop and put a hand on the map table, my knees so shaky I could barely walk, my stomach tightening dangerously around that jerked pork.

  ~~~

  I lay on Penweather's bunk and tried not to imagine the shape of the man that must have made the large dent I was curled up in. The pillow smelled a bit like aftershave butter and hair lotion.

  The blanket was in need of a pill-clipping.

  I discovered a knot in the woodwork above the sink that resembled a frog.

  I counted all the boards in the ceiling.

  Twice.

  But no matter what I did, I kept hearing that word, “Surprisingly."

  The way he said it... Surpriseingly, that Northlander Altyran lilt rolling it off his tongue with such... suspicion.

  Ridiculous. Why was his good opinion of me, or lack of it, even remotely important?

  I was fairly sure I should be more worried about this mandatory meeting at eight bells, but there it was, like finding a drowned spider in your tea: "Surprisingly."

  Why was it so surprising that I would 'handle' this whole awful mess? What was the alternative? Not handling it? Would he prefer I fall apart and melt into a useless, quivering puddle? Honestly! What sort of a rattlebrain did he take me for?

  Handle it.

  As if he could last a day in polite society.

  I must admit I giggled far too long at the thought of the captain out in public, stomping about a ballroom in those big boots, bowling couples over left and right. You'd know exactly where he was. There would be a flurry of objection wherever he went. 'Ouch!' and 'I say, sir, you're on my hem,' and 'Oh! My toes!'

  The night would end with physicians called. Ankles splinted. Hairpieces remade. Dresses repaired.

  23. Revelations

  26th of Uirra

  A sound brought me spiraling up from the depths of a dreamless void. I opened my eyes. A slat of wood paneling swam into view.

  For the life of me, I couldn't remember where I was, or why I was there.

  "Is she still in bed?"

  The captain's voice had me pushing myself upright, while my sleep-deprived brain began putting things together in random order:

  I am supposed to be at some sort of meeting with the captain.

  I mus
t have slept late and missed the meeting.

  The captain is going to think I'm absolutely useless.

  I need to get dressed – no, I don't, I'm already wearing clothes. I got up and got dressed an hour ago so I wouldn't be late for the meeting.

  I have absolutely no memory of falling asleep again.

  I have no hat.

  Where are my shoes? On my feet.

  Open the door.

  The captain was standing there, his hand raised to knock, a thunderous expression on his face.

  I blinked up at him, still trying to drag my thoughts out of the cobwebs. It wasn't working. I had no idea what to say.

  Arramy lowered his hand, his mouth becoming a stern line. He didn't say anything, either. He just turned around and went striding across the Bridge to the door opposite mine, yanked it open, then glanced back when I didn't immediately follow.

  Exhaustion was taking its toll. I was freezing, my head ached, and my stomach had cramped up on itself. I had to force myself to take a step, then another, closing the distance between myself and that door, every ragged nerve in my body screaming that I was not going to like what was waiting for me on the other side.

  I was right.

  Bloody NaVarre was sitting in one of a pair of metal chairs in the middle of the council chamber. He was tied to the back of the seat, and his face was haggard and unshaven, but the anger simmering in his eyes when he saw me in the doorway was enough to make me feel like a cornered mouse all over again.

  I caught myself sidling backwards, as if Arramy's unexpectedly reassuring size would protect me.

  There was no protecting. Or reassuring. Arramy placed his hand at the small of my back and nudged me farther into the room as he came in. Then he closed the door behind us and locked it.

  NaVarre's eyes skimmed over me, then he scowled over my head at the captain. "She doesn't have anything to do with this."

  Arramy stepped around me and walked over to a steel-bound chest sitting open on a table that had been pushed up against the far wall to make room for... whatever this was. He began taking things out of the chest, placing them in neat rows on the table. "Have a seat, Miss Warring."