Shadow Road

by A. E. Pennymaker

  NaVarre stood slightly behind and to Arramy's right, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, spine rigid. From the death-stare he was giving the back of Arramy's head, he clearly didn't want to be there.

  Raggan blew a long blast on his dog-pipe, and all the sailors snapped to attention.

  The captain's rough brogue lacked the elegance of NaVarre's cultured tones, but that didn't keep everyone from falling quiet to listen when he began speaking:

  "I know this is confusing."

  There was a smattering of angry agreement from the refugees, especially Orrul, who was glaring daggers at NaVarre.

  Arramy stilled, waiting for silence again. Then he kept going with, "I know many of you have been wondering what is going on. Why the Erristos fired on us. Why we're sailing away from home. I have to be honest. I don't know all the answers. I do know it's frightening. I've got loved ones on the mainland too, and right now I don't know when I'll be able to return, or what will happen to them while I'm gone.

  "Many of you have been asking why we went back for the Bloody Fox and his crew. Why they are sailing with us now. Why I allowed them to go free, why they haven't left, why they are being treated as friends instead of enemies. Too many whys, but it comes down to this. Out here, they are as close to friends as we are going to get.

  "Home isn't safe for any of us anymore. Someone back there wants us all dead. The same people want NaVarre and his crew dead, too. I don't know who. I don't know all of why, but in the end, the who and why of it isn't as important as what we have to do to stay alive. Here. Now. On this ship, with these people. And we have to survive. We have to live to fight another day, or whoever they are, they win.

  "Some of you have no doubt figured out what happened in the hold. The storm did more than ruin water and cargo. We've been blown too far off course to get to the colonial shore. That does not mean all is lost. The Bloody Fox has offered to take us to Aethscaul Island. We can hide there, but you should know that Aethscaul... is in the Rimrocks. Another frightening thing, yes, but if there is anyone capable of living in an active volcano, it would be NaVarre."

  To my surprise there was a murmur of laughter.

  Arramy cracked a hint of a grin and paused to let everyone go calm again, then went on, his expression sober. "You need to understand that this is our best option, but it's also a one-way trip. NaVarre has to protect his own interests, and you won't be allowed to leave the Island once you're there. I won't force you to do that, so I've outfitted a longboat with sail and what supplies we can spare. If any of the civilians want to leave, you can try your luck reaching land on your own... You must act quickly, though. The Prima Median current will take you due west from here, but the farther south we go, the farther away the coastline will get, and you will wind up being swept north into the Marral Sea instead. I can only give you a quarter hour to make your decision."

  A stunned hush followed his announcement.

  Then Orrul said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I won't be no pirate's slave! If that's what 'e's got planned, 'e can hang!"

  Several voices clamored after that, until the butcher's wife rolled her eyes and planted her hands on her hips. "Well it beats starving to death with your face fer company. No one would want ya, anyway, ya great oaf. Dr. Turragan, what do you think? Should we stay or go?"

  The Doctor sighed. "I would suggest we take our discussion to the mess and get the children out of the cold."

  That was met by general acceptance, and all of the refugees trooped down the main hatch stairs, disappearing below decks.

  Arramy waited where he was, hands clasped behind his back.

  I studied NaVarre. He still wasn't pleased, and I squinted, trying to figure out what was going through his head. It had been his suggestion to take the civilians to Aethscaul. Why the reluctance now? Was he rethinking that offer?

  Ten minutes later, the adults came back up, much quieter, and with definite purpose.

  Dr. Turragan stepped forward. "Captain, we have talked about it, and we have all decided to stay on the Stryka and accept the pirate NaVarre's offer of hospitality. Furthermore, if there is anything that the able-bodied among us can do to be of use, do not hesitate to ask. We are at your service. We humbly thank you for your bravery, and your dedication to the people under your care." Then he took off his flop-brimmed physician's hat and held it to his chest as he dipped into a bow.

  There was a moment of tension when Orrul moved to stand beside the Doctor. He glared up at the captain, but then he too swiped his knitted cap from his head. One by one, the rest of the survivors followed suit.

  When the last of the civilians had offered their honors, Arramy nodded. Once.

  He seemed cool and collected, but I was standing close enough to see the tightness of his jaw and the rigid set of his shoulders as he turned away from the main deck. He shot a quick, sidelong look in my direction as he strode to the Bridge door, and his eyes met mine, fierce and solemn.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  NaVarre stalked after the captain. Before the door to the Bridge closed behind them, his angry, "What in all the seven blue hells do you think you're doing, offering them a boat?" could be heard, followed by Arramy's calm, "My ship, my rules."

  I glanced down at Evers.

  He beamed a gap-toothed smile at me, brown eyes bright with confidence in spite of the raised voices behind us. "Don't worry none, Miss. Cap'n'll keep them pirates in line."

  33. Still Miss Westerby

  32nd of Uirra, Continued

  I finally got to meet the illustrious Lieutenant Penweather this evening.

  Arramy had put him in charge of the carpenters and deckhands that had been helping with repairs on the Angpixen. He hadn't been aboard the Stryka often, but he and the other Navy crewmen had been called back over after the storm.

  I walked into the Loftman's Gallery for dinner to find most of the off-duty officers already seated and well into their first mug of ale. For once, their conversations didn't wane when I came in. Most of them seemed much more relaxed than normal, in fact, and I could only wonder if it was because of the captain's speech.

  Strange that something so simple could lift the spirits of an entire ship, but it certainly seemed to be the case.

  Dinner was about to begin. Evers and Mannish had just finished placing trays of broiled redfish, fried potatoes, and little urns of dipping sauces on the table runner as I took my usual seat at the end facing the captain. There was exactly enough for everyone to have a serving of each, but no more.

  Lieutenant Mannemarra came hurrying over to snatch the empty chair to my left, and immediately that familiar river of one-sided conversation began gurgling away: "Did you hear the news about the Rimrocks? I'm sure you did. You always know everything ahead of the rest of us somehow. I think that's wonderful, really, that you're so smart. I'm not opposed to intelligence in women, although my views have never been popular among my friends. I'm quite the renegade back home. I say. Would you care for one of these fritters? Cook has outdone himself again."

  I eyed the potato fritter skewered on Mannemarra's fork, and fought the urge to take it, turn it about, and introduce the man's tonsils to it. It would have been so simple. Just one good jab, but it wouldn't have done any good. The man could eat, breathe, and speak at the same time, like some sort of sentient sponge. I had yet to figure out how he did it, but I had seen it happen more than once.

  Chewing my lip, I picked up a sauce urn and dribbled something red into one of my dipping bowls, absently wondering what it would be like to shove whole stacks of fritters into that constantly wagging mouth. Would everything disappear in a flurry of pieces like logs in a mechanical grinder? Or would they fill his cheeks till they sagged like a chipmunk's, growing, growing... pop!

  I was being horrible. Mannemarra was awkward, but well-meaning and friendly. He also didn't seem to mind that I was there, unlike some.

  Commander Kyro did a quick double take in the direction of the doorway, slapped the
table and exclaimed, "Hah! Pay up, Gorson."

  There was a grumble from the lieutenant commander, who started fishing through his jacket pockets for his money skin as Lieutenant Chalb nodded to someone who had just arrived. "Survived, then, Penweather?"

  I glanced around to find a tall young man standing in the doorway, a bifold hat under his arm, side-shorn auburn hair gleaming in the light of the ceiling lanterns. If she had been there, Betha would have had another face to swoon over. Classically handsome, with the narrow, sloped nose and pretty eyes of a Lodesian aristocrat, Penweather was almost as lordly as NaVarre.

  His smile flashed just as easily, too. "By the skin of my teeth, Sir. The very skin. I'm glad to be home."

  I faced forward again just in time to see the captain's gaze flick from me to the lieutenant and back. Then he took a long draft from his mug of ale, and sat back in his chair, his jaw briefly going tight.

  There was only one empty seat left at the table, and the lieutenant came walking over to pull the chair out for himself. Laughing hazel eyes met mine as he sat down across from Mannemarra.

  Which put him directly to my right.

  Mannemarra was suddenly very quiet, studying his potato fritters.

  As well-meaning and loyal as the man was, that silence was still physical bliss. I closed my eyes and drank it in, reveling in the fact that I could think two of my own thoughts together. Perhaps I would be able to enjoy my dinner after all —

  The captain cleared his throat, then said, his voice gruff, "Miss Westerby."

  I ground my teeth, my smile a beat too slow to appear as I brought my head up and looked at him.

  Arramy lifted an eyebrow, a hint of dry humor hiding behind those pale eyes as he drawled, "I felt you should know that Lineman Mannemarra has very kindly volunteered to let Lieutenant Penweather have his bunk just so you will be able to remain in Penweather's cabin."

  I didn't notice what Penweather's reaction was, although I heard what sounded like an "ah" of surprise. I stared at the captain. He had done it on purpose. He knew what the rest of my evening would be like. I could see it in that barely-there smirk on his face when Mannemarra instantly burbled forth again, "Oh, it was an honor! Really, it was. And I would do it again if I could. It's a gentleman's duty to see to the comfort of the softer sex..."

  There was more. Much more, mostly about how enjoyable it was to help others in need. I murmured a "Thank you" that I wasn't even sure he heard, and then made a conscious decision to go selectively deaf in that ear, focusing instead on what was happening along the rest of the table.

  It was most unusual. Unlike past officer's dinners, conversation lit up again, with Lieutenant Penweather stuck squarely in the spotlight. After only a few minutes I could understand why. He was a witty taleweaver. As though a plug had been pulled somewhere, these men who had been glowering at each other only the day before were clutching their sides and hooting with laughter as the lieutenant recounted his escapades from the Angpixen.

  I even found myself smiling at several of his stories, especially the one about Finch's parrot flying around the ship telling everyone to go clean the privy.

  But I also found myself remembering the night I snuck into Arramy's cabin to steal the binder back.

  It was clear that Penweather was the man I had followed up the stairs to the quarterdeck – the one who always cracked jokes with the officer on watch. While there wasn't anything dark or dangerous about that, it did remind me of something else. I sobered in spite of all the merriment, and my attention found its way to the captain.

  He was lurking there at the far end of the table, observing everything from over the copper rim of his alespounce, eyes a glimmer of frigid steel.

  I realized then what had been prodding at my thoughts since Penweather arrived. Arramy had called me Miss Westerby.

  He might have given his crew a grain of hope with his speech that morning, but he hadn't really given them the truth. Not all of it. There were still secrets they didn't know. I couldn't let my guard down with these men any more than I could trust the survivors in the hold.

  The laughter at the table faded to a dull roar, all the warmth and hilarity losing its brilliance even while Penweather continued to string mile-long sailor's yarns, and the men kept cackling like loons. Even Mannemarra burst into boyish giggles, his skin flushing a shade of pink that clashed with his flaxen hair.

  Strangely dizzy, I looked around at all of them, seeing faces I had become accustomed to, faces that had become empty masks, mouths that opened and closed, making senseless noise, their words tangling together.

  My gaze collided with the captain's, and I drew in an involuntary breath.

  He didn't know who to trust either.

  ~~~

  Alespounce: a tall, lidded tankard made of copper and ox horn, traditionally used in the Ronyran Province, but adopted throughout the coalition.

  34. Fresh Air

  33rd of Uirra

  A bead of perspiration dribbled out of my hair and ran down my face to drop onto the page of my journal.

  Again.

  Writing had become quite the rugged experience since we crossed the 30th parallel.

  The weather outside hadn't become warmer, but the sides of the Stryka were painted black, which warmed everything above the waterline. Even with the porthole winched all the way open, Penweather's cabin quickly became too stuffy to stay in for any length of time.

  But, since my journal now contained dangerous information, I didn't dare write in it anywhere but holed up with the door bolted.

  I figured if I wrote as much down as I could, I'd be able to use it somehow. Prove that it happened, maybe. Wrap my head around it.

  I still hadn't quite accomplished that yet, even after studiously scribbling away most evenings. I was still the hollow husk from the lifeboat: empty, scraped out and cold. It took an awful lot of effort to truly feel anything. Always at the back of my mind was that ever-present lack, my father is not here, my father is not here, my father is not here. The weight of it clung to me like a shroud, and it only got heavier when I was alone.

  Today was no different, but Raggan was busy, and Des'Cready had banished me from the galley for the rest of the day after I set fire to the captain's fruiteponne.

  I longed to talk to Laffa. I'd have even let her poke me in the ribs again and tell me to eat fiiiiiish and start living. Instead, there I was, sitting in a stuffy, overheated cabin, sweating through my blouse, with no one to talk to. I didn't even know if Laffa would recognize me if I snuck down to see her.

  I needed to do something, though, or I was going to go mad.

  Here lies Miss Brenorra Warring.

  She was whole, but now she's pouring.

  Into puddles see her forming,

  Oh, poor Miss Brenorra Warring.

  I took all of ten minutes composing the above, doodled a bucket around it, added a bunch of flowers and leaves to the margins and a sketch of my own fingers off to the side, then heaved a huge sigh and stabbed Penweather’s pen nib-first into its sponge and sat back in the folding chair.

  I couldn't stand me anymore. I needed some fresh air.

  ~~~

  I wandered the quarterdeck for a few minutes, staring up at the sails, mesmerized by the play of bright sunlit white against crisp blue shadow.

  Around me, the Stryka was abuzz with an orderly sort of energy.

  The civilians had settled in, and the familiar midday scent of beef hash drifted from the hold. The hum of conversation in the mess aft of the galley was clearly audible; Des'Cready must have opened a few portholes in the galley to let in some fresh air.

  Evers and Reiskelder were up on the aft deck, their faces scrunched with disgust as they emptied the privy buckets into the ship's wake.

  A few sailors were swabbing the quarterdeck behind me, the movements of rag-mop and water a syncopated slop, squish, tap, splash.

  As I stood at the portside railing, face to a pleasant late-winter breeze that tugged at my
hair and cooled my skin, there was a shout down on the main deck, then more shouting back and forth between the Stryka and the Angpixen. Curiosity piqued, I made my way to the railing of the balconette.

  NaVarre was preparing to send something over on the cargo swing but had to wait because there was some sort of bother with the Stryka's loading bay hatch cover.

  The corresponding lower deck panels had been successfully folded away so the incoming load could be lowered straight into the cargo hold, but the mechanism that lifted the heavy, armored outer hatch doors wasn't cooperating. They were stuck halfway open, and Arramy was on his hands and knees, his jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, elbow deep in the guts of the deck engine gearbox. He finished tinkering and straightened, wiping grease-smudged hands on a rag before reaching over and slapping a lever down as he got to his feet.

  A small cheer went up from the loading crew when the deck engine roared to life in a puff of smoke and a grind of gears, and the hatch doors began cranking apart again.

  Raggan gave Arramy a clap on the back, then turned to bellow at the Angpixen through cupped hands, "Right! Send 'er o'er!"

  On the Ang, there was a similar cough of an engine as Finch began operating the Ang's deck winch. A large platform rose into the air, suspended on ropes from a pulley on the mainsail yardarm. Three huge water barrels were lashed to the platform, and NaVarre stood on top of them, feet braced, hands gripping the hoist ring above his head. A moment later, Finch released the guideline, and the platform came swinging across the space between the two ships, bringing NaVarre with it. The platform was hooked and transferred to the Stryka's own cargo boom, and the sailors began letting it down through the wide-open loading bay doors, where NaVarre stepped off the barrels and onto the deck as easily as if he were exiting a lift.

  He busied himself talking to Arramy for a few minutes, then came up the stairs to the quarterdeck, giving me a big, shark-like smile as he headed for the Bridge.