Emerald Storm Read online

  “It will be the harvest moon in a few weeks. Maybe we we’ll catch the show on the way back,” Wyatt said.

  The lookout announced the sighting of sails. Several ships clustered under the safety of the fort, but they were so far out that only their topsails showed.

  “I would have expected the captain to have ordered a course change by now. He’s letting us get awfully close.”

  “Drumindor can’t shoot this far, can she?” Hadrian asked.

  “No, but the fortress isn’t the only danger,” Wyatt pointed out. “It isn’t safe for an imperial vessel to linger in these waters. Delgos isn’t officially at war with us, but everyone knows the DeLurs support the Nationalists and—well—accidents can happen.”

  ***

  They continued sailing due south. It was not until the point was well astern and nearly out of sight that the captain appeared on the quarterdeck. Now, at least they would discover which direction the Emerald Storm would go.

  “Heave-to, Mister Bishop!” he ordered.

  “Back the main’sl!” Bishop shouted, and the men sprang into action.

  This was the first time Hadrian had heard these particular orders and he was glad that, as ship’s cook, he was not required to carry them out. It did not take long for him to see what was happening. Backing the mainsail caused it to catch the wind on its forward side. If the fore and mizzenmasts were also backed, the ship would sail in reverse. Since they remained trimmed as they were, the force of the wind lay balanced between them, leaving the ship stationary on the water.

  Once the ship was heaved-to the captain ordered a reading on the ship’s position, then disappeared once more into his cabin, leaving Lieutenant Bishop on the quarterdeck.

  “So much for picking a direction,” Hadrian muttered to himself.

  They remained stationary for the rest of that day. At sunset, Captain Seward ordered lights hauled aloft, but nothing further slipped his lips.

  Hadrian served supper, boiled salt pork stew again. Even he was tired of his menu, but the only complaints came from the recently pressed who were not yet hardened to the conformities of life at sea. Hadrian suspected most of the veterans on board would demand salt pork and biscuits even on land rather than break the routine.

  “He ez a murderer, dat ez why!”

  Hadrian heard Staul shout as he entered the below deck with the last of the evening meals. The Tenkin was standing slightly crouched in the center of the crews’ quarters. His dark tattooed body and rippling muscles were revealed as he removed his shirt. In his right hand, he held a knife. A cloth wrapped his left fist. His chest heaved with excitement, a mad grin on his face, and a sinister glare in his eyes.

  In front of Staul stood Royce.

  “He ked Edgar Drew. Everyone knows et. Now, he’ll be dee one to die, eh?”

  Royce stood casually, his hands loosely clasped before him as if he were just one of the bystanders—except—his eyes never left the knife. Royce followed it as a cat might watch the movement of a string. It only took Hadrian a second to see why. Staul was holding the knife by the blade. On a hunch, Hadrian scanned the room and found Defoe standing behind and to Royce’s left, a hand hidden behind his back.

  Staul took his attention off Royce for a moment, but Hadrian noticed his weight shift to his rear foot and hoped his friend noticed as well. An instant later Staul threw the knife. The blade flew with perfect accuracy, only when it arrived the thief was not there and the tip buried itself in a deck post.

  All eyes were on Staul as he bristled with rage, shouting curses. Hadrian forced himself to ignore the Tenkin and searched for Defoe. He had moved. Spotting the glint of a blade in the crowd, he found him again. Defoe had slipped up behind Royce and lunged. Royce spun. Not taken in by the plot, he faced his old guild mate with the blade Staul had provided. Defoe halted mid-step, hesitated, then backed away melting into the crowd. Hadrian doubted anyone else noticed his involvement.

  “Ah! You dance well!” Staul shouted and laughed. “Dat ez good. Perhaps next time you trip, eh?”

  The excitement over, the crowd broke up. As they did, Jacob Derning muttered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Good to see I’m not the only one who thinks he killed poor Drew.”

  “Royce,” Hadrian called, keeping his eyes focused on Jacob. “Perhaps you should take your meal up on the deck where it’s cooler.”

  ***

  “That was pleasant,” Hadrian said, after the two had safely reached the galley and closed the door behind them.

  “What was?” Poe asked, dishing out the last of the stew for the midshipmen.

  “Oh, nothing really. A few crewmen just tried to murder Royce.”

  “What?” Poe almost dropped the whole kettle.

  “Now, can I kill people?” Royce asked, stepping into the corner and putting his back against the wall. He had an evil look on his face.

  “Who tried to murder him?”

  “Defoe,” Royce replied. “So, what am I supposed to do now? Lie awake at night waiting for him and his buddies—I’m sorry, his mates—to knife me?”

  “Who’s Defoe?”

  “Poe, would it be possible for Royce and I to sleep in here at night?”

  “In the galley? I suppose. Won’t be too comfortable, but if Royce is always on time for his watch, and if you tell Mister Bishop you want him to help with the night time boils, he might allow it.”

  “Great, I’ll do that. While I’m gone, Poe, can you go below and get us a couple of hammocks that we can hang in here. Royce, maybe you can rig a lock for the door?”

  “It’s better than being bait.”

  “Who’s Defoe?”

  ***

  Royce worked both the second dogwatch and the first watch, which kept him aloft from sunset until midnight. By the time he returned, Hadrian had obtained permission for Royce to sleep in the galley, and Poe had moved up what little gear they had and strung two hammocks between the walls of the narrow room.

  “How is it?” the thief asked entering the darkened galley and finding Hadrian hanging in the netting.

  “Hmm?” he asked waking up. “Oh, okay I guess. The room is too narrow for me so I feel like I’m being bent in half, but it should be fine for you. How was your watch? Did you see Defoe?”

  “Never took my eyes off old Bernie,” he said, grinning and dodging a pot that hung from the overhead beam. Hadrian knew Royce must have enjoyed a bit of revenge on Defoe. If there was ever a place where Royce held an advantage, it was a hundred feet in the air dangling from beams and ropes in the dar of night.

  Hadrian shifted his weight causing his hammock to swing. “What did you do?”

  “Actually, I didn’t do anything, but that was what drove him crazy. He’s still sweating.”

  “So he did recognize you.”

  “Oh, yeah, and it was like there were two moons out tonight his face was so pale.”

  Royce checked the lines and the mountings of the hammock Poe had installed for him and looked generally pleased with the work.

  “To be honest, I’m surprised Defoe didn’t suffer an accidental fall.”

  Royce shook his head. “Two accidents off my mast is just bad planning. Besides, Defoe wasn’t trying to kill me.”

  “Sure looked that way from where I was standing. And it seemed pretty organized too.”

  “You think so?” he asked sitting on the crate of biscuits Poe had brought up for the morning’s breakfast. “It’s not how I would do it. First, why stage the fight in a room full of witnesses? If they had killed me, they would hang. Second, why attack me below? Like I said, the sea is the perfect place to dispose of a body and the closer to the rail you get your victim, the easier it is.”

  “Then what do you think they were up to?”

  Royce pursed his lips and shook his head. “I have no idea. If it was a diversion to rifle our belongings, why not hold it topside? For that matter, why bother with a diversion at all? There have been plenty of times while we were on deck to go
through our stuff.”

  “You think it was just to intimidate us?”

  “If it was, it wasn’t Defoe’s idea. Threatening to kill me but not finishing the job is famously fatal. He would know that.”

  “So, Derning put them up to it?”

  “Maybe, but…I don’t know. Derning doesn’t seem like someone Defoe would take orders from—at least, not such stupid orders.”

  “Makes sense, so then—”

  The muffled thump, like another body hitting the deck, brought them to their feet. Hadrian threw open the door of the galley and cautiously looked about the deck.

  The larboard watch was on duty but rather than the typical watch-and-snooze routine, they were hard at work running a boat drill. They hoisted the longboat from the yard and had it over the side where it bumped the gunwale once more before being lowered into the sea.

  “Odd time for a lifeboat drill,” Wyatt said, walking toward them from the shelter of the forecastle.

  “Trouble sleeping?” Royce asked.

  Wyatt beamed a grin. “Look who else is on duty,” he told them, pointing at the quarterdeck where Sentinel Thranic, Mister Beryl, Doctor Levy, and Defoe stood talking.

  They slipped around the forecastle, moving quickly to the bow. Looking over the rail, Hadrian saw six men rowing toward a nearby light.

  “Another ship,” Royce muttered.

  “Really?”

  “A small, single mast schooner. No flag.”

  “Is there anything in the longboat?” Hadrian asked. “If that’s payment going to—”

  Royce shook his head. “Just the crew.”

  They watched as the sound of the oars faded, then waited. Hadrian strained, peering into the darkness, but all he could see was the bobbing light of the little boat and the one marking its destination.

  “Boat’s coming back,” Royce announced, “and there’s an extra head now.”

  Wyatt squinted. “Who would they be picking up in the middle of the night from Delgos?”

  They watched as the longboat returned. Just as Royce said, there was an additional man—a passenger. Wrapped in ship’s blankets, he was small and thin, with a long pasty face and white hair. He looked to be very old, far too old to be of any use as a sailor. He came aboard and spoke to Thranic and Doctor Levy at length. The old man’s things were gathered and deposited beside him. One of the bags came loose and two weighty, leather-bound books spilled onto the bleached deck. “Careful, my boy,” the old man cautioned the sailor. “Tho are one of a kind, and like me, are very old and sadly fragile.”

  “Gather his things and take them to the guest quarters,” Thranic ordered. Glancing toward the bow, he stopped abruptly. He glared at them, licking his thin lips in thought, then slowly approached. As he did, he held his dark cloak tight, his shoulders raised to protect his neck from the cold wind. Between this and his stooped back, he resembled a scavenger bird.

  “What are you all doing on deck? None of you are part of the larboard watch.”

  “Off duty, sir,” Wyatt answered for them. “Just getting a bit of fresh air.”

  Thranic peered at Hadrian and took a step toward him. “You’re the cook, aren’t you?”

  Without thinking, Hadrian felt at his side for the hilt of his absent sword. Something about the sentinel made him flinch. Sentinels were always scary, but this one was absolutely chilling. Returning his gaze was like staring into the eyes of restrained madness.

  “You joined this voyage along with…” Thranic’s eyes shifted to Royce. “This one—yes, the nimble fellow—the one so good at climbing. What’s your name? Melborn isn’t it? Royce Melborn? I heard you were seasick. How odd.”

  Royce remained silent.

  “Very odd, indeed.”

  “Sentinel Thranic?” the old man called, his weak voice barely making the trip across the deck. “I would rather like to get out of the damp wind if I could.” He coughed.

  Thranic stared a moment longer at Royce then pivoted sharply and left them.

  “Not exactly the kind of guy you want taking an interest in you is he?” Wyatt offered.

  With the longboat back aboard, the captain appeared on the quarterdeck and ordered a new course—due east, into the wind.

  Chapter 9

  Ella

  “Another dispatch fr om Sir Breckton, sir,” the clerk announced, handing a small scroll to the imperial chancellor. The elderly man returned to the desk in his little office and read the note. A scowl grew across his face.

  “The man is incorrigible!” The chancellor burst out to no one, then pulled a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped his quill.

  The door opened unexpectedly and the chancellor jumped. “Can’t you knock?”

  “Sorry, Biddings, did I startle you?” the Earl of Chadwick asked, entering with his exquisite floor-length cape trailing behind him. He had a pair of white gloves draped over one forearm as he bit into a bright red apple.

  “You’re always startling me. I think you get a sadistic pleasure from it.”

  Archibald smiled. “I saw the dispatch arrive. Is there any word from the Emerald Storm?”

  “No, this is from Breckton.”

  “Breckton? What does he want?” Archibald sat in the armchair opposite the chancellor and rested his booted feet on a footstool.

  “No matter how many times I tell him to wait and be patient, he refuses to grasp that we know more than he does. He wants permission to attack Ratibor.”

  Archibald sighed. “Again? I suppose you see now what I’ve had to put up with all these years. He and Enden are so headstrong I—”

  “Were,” the chancellor corrected, “Sir Enden died in Dahlgren.”

  Ballentyne nodded. “And wasn’t that a waste of a good man.” He took another bite and with his mouth still full went on. “Do you need me to write him personally? He is my knight after all.”

  “What would help is to be able to tell him why he doesn’t need to attack.”

  Archibald shook his head. “Saldur and Ethelred are still insisting on secrecy regarding the—”

  The chancellor raised a hand stopping him. Archibald looked confused and the chancellor pointed at the chambermaid on her knees scrubbing the floor near the windows of his office.

  Ballentyne rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. Do you really think the scrub girl is a spy?”

  “I have always found it best to err on the side of caution. She doesn’t have to be a spy to get you hanged for treason.”

  “She doesn’t even know what we are talking about. Besides look at her. It isn’t likely she’ll be bragging in some pub. You don’t go out at night boasting at bars do you, lass?”

  Ella shook her head and refused to look up so that her brown, sweat-snarled hair continued to hang in her face.

  “See!” Archibald said in a vindicated tone. “It is like censoring yourself because there is a couch or a chair in the room.”

  “I was referring to a more subtle kind of danger,” Biddings told him. “Should something happen. Something unfortunate with the plan such that it fails—someone always has to be blamed. How fortunate it would be to discover a loquacious earl who had boasted details to even a mindless chambermaid.”

  Archibald’s smirk faded immediately.

  “The third son of a dishonored baron doesn’t rise to the rank of imperial chancellor by being stupid,” Biddings said.

  “Point taken.” Archibald glanced back at the scrub girl with a new expression of loathing. “I had best return to Saldur’s office or he’ll be looking for me. Honestly, Biddings, I’m really starting to detest staying in this palace.”

  “She still won’t see you?”

  “No, I can’t get past her secretary. That Lady Amilia is a sly one. Plays all innocent and doe-eyed, but she guards the empress with ruthless determination. And Saldur and Ethelred are no help at all. They insist she plans to marry Ethelred. It has to be a lie. I simply can’t imagine Modina wanting that old moose.”

  “Particularly whe
n she could choose a young buck like yourself?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And your desire is true love, of course, with absolutely no thought how marrying Modina would make you emperor.”

  “For a man who went from third baron’s son to chancellor, I am surprised you can even ask me that.”

  “Archie!” bellowed the voice of Regent Saldur, echoing down the hall outside the office.

  “I’m in with Biddings!” Archibald shouted back, through the open door. “And don’t call me—” He was interrupted by the sudden rush of the scrub girl running bucket in hand from the office. “Looks like she doesn’t like Saldur any more than I do.”

  ***

  Arista had spilled scrub water onto her skirt causing it to plaster the rough material to her legs. Her thin cloth shoes made a disagreeable slapping noise as she ran down the corridor. The sound of Saldur’s voice made her run faster.

  That was close, too close. Yet even as she fled through the corridor, she wondered if Saldur, who had known the princess since birth, would recognize her. There was nothing magical about her transformation, but that did not make it any less impenetrable. She wore dirty rags, lacked makeup, and her once lustrous hair was now a tangled mess. It had lightened, bleached by the same sun that tanned her skin. Still, it was more than just her appearance. Arista had changed. At times when she caught her own reflection, it took a moment to register that she was seeing herself and not some poor peasant woman. The bright-eyed girl was gone and a dark brooding spirit possessed her battered body.

  More than anything else, the sheer absurdity of the situation provided the greatest protection. No one would believe that a sheltered, self-indulgent princess would willingly scrub floors in the palace of her enemy. She doubted even Saldur’s mind would grant enough latitude to penetrate the illusion. Even if some thought she looked familiar—and several seemed to—their minds simply could not bend that far. They could no more accept that she was Arista Essendon than the notion of talking pigs or that Maribor was not god. To entertain such an idea would require a mind open to new possibilities, and no one at the palace fit that description.