But he had always been a master at sailing. Anticipating the winds and currents, navigating by an unerring sense of direction and distance. And his confidence brought back his vitality.
Old Biddy grumbled and complained constantly about shipboard discomforts, but at night in the stern cabin built for a captain, she tittered like a young woman about the revival of his lusts. Afterward, he held her comfortable body against his and stroked her hair or shoulder until his unusual tenderness made her tears fall on his chest. Such a sentimental old thing, with her broad rear, hanging breasts, and saggy skin, but Nithanil knew himself more content with her than with either of his late noble wives. Nearly every day he tried to give her a gift—something sweet-tasting or cunningly crafted—to show the appreciation he could never articulate. He kept up this habit on deck, even if it meant just carving her dinner potato into the shape of a flower.
Several weeks out of Lortherrod, the sky to the south grew dark. Nithanil didn’t need any squirt to tell him that a storm threatened. The crew silently made their preparations, bringing down the sails, keeping eyes on the horizon. The clouds turned black, with an ominous tint. The wind started to pick up, and the waves grew choppy rather than flowing in organized rolls.
Nithanil went to his cabin to put on his rain cloak. Iluka pestered him about catching cold, nagging he ignored.
But as he was about to exit he turned to her. “When we get into it, you tie yourself in the bunk, like this—see? Blankets and clothes, all tucked round. And don’t you get up, even if you vomit.”
“Don’t you lecture me about sailing, you old walrus!” she snapped back at him. “I’ve been in boats since I was a wee thing.”
“You’ve been in fishing boats, close to the shore. Never a real gale out at sea. You mind me, now.” He gave her a little swat on her bottom.
Outside, the crew eyed the clouds with dread, marveling as they grew still darker and thickened into the consistency of syrup. Over-plump raindrops fell; then the wind, which had already been strong, began tugging at everything not nailed down. Nithanil tied a rope around his cloak to keep it from fluttering so.
Quickly, the storm grew in intensity. Lightning bolts fissured the skies; thunder followed as if Lautan had decided to crash the heavens together right on top of their heads. The air became so heavy with pelting rain from all directions that Nithanil figured they couldn’t be wetter if the ship had turned upside down. A cask broke out of its lashings and rolled wildly around the deck, a dangerous missile capable of crushing a man who got in its way. Nithanil was relieved when it finally bounced over the port side. Shuddering, Wave Racer crested each wave and creaked in the troughs. The seamaster’s hand-selected mate at the wheel performed with skill, but finally Nithanil replaced him himself; he did not have the man’s strength, but he was graced with Anticipation, able to read the waves a tick before they hit and adjust the rudder.
In his long years at sea he had never encountered a tempest like the one that overtook them now. Nithanil felt little fear for his own life—if Lautan had decided to take him down to the depths, so be it. But he would not give up the lives of his crew, his son, or Old Biddy without putting up a fierce battle. He tied himself to the wheel.
A mighty wave crest lifted his ship and then dropped it down with a horrendous crash such that seawater poured over the sides. Nithanil compensated with perfect timing, righting the craft.
“Is that the worst you can do, old Lautan?” Nithanil muttered, though he couldn’t hear himself for the wind in his ears. “Bring it on, you stinking blowhole!”
Waves splashed water in his eyes, blinding him. Lightning struck not fifty paces off the starboard. The thunder that instantly followed deafened him.
“Eh! I don’t hear so well anyway, Lautan. But my hands feel the ship, feel the current, and feel the waves. Fuck you, you greedy bastard! You ain’t going to get this craft!”
Waves crashed over the sides—first from port and then from starboard. Nithanil knew that the crew would be frantically bailing and pumping below. The bigger problem was that his hands were getting too numb with the cold to hold the spokes of the helm.
He tried to call to Mikil, who had lashed himself to the mainmast, amidships, standing by, but the wind tore the words out of his mouth. Mikil saw his gestures; he cut his ropes and crawled on his hands and knees to his father. At that moment, a wave tipped the ship perilously.
“Damn you, Lautan. You saved that boy once. Don’t tell me you want him now? What kind of a greedy bastard are you?”
The air was full of foam; it was hard to breathe. Nithanil had no idea what direction they were headed, since it was impossible to see the sun or the stars. Was it still daytime? Nighttime?
Mikil took the wheel. Nithanil slumped onto the deck, too exhausted to move himself far. He crawled under a tarp, out of the direct squall, though the ship’s deck was awash with seawater and stranded fish flopped in his lap. He tied his belt to a turnbuckle and fell into a semiconscious doze sitting up.
When he awoke—who knows how much time had passed?—they were still in the storm. But from the sound of the wind and the pitch of the sea, it had lessened to a more normal squall, rather than an Almighty Temper Tantrum. Prodded by the discomfort of his clammy and heavy clothes, the former king pulled himself up and crawled out of the tarp.
The first mate now stood at the wheel. His sailors had added a sail; the sooner they escaped this weather the better. Nithanil stumbled forward and muttered a “Well done” to the men he passed. Then he staggered into his cabin. Everything looked a shambles and smelled of dead sea creatures, vomit, and spilled coffee. Nithanil hardly cared. He waded through the ankle-deep water. Iluka lay in wait for him, with towels and a hundred scolds, which escalated in octave when he made no response to her. She stripped off his sodden upper apparel. Getting his boots off took all of her strength, and when they finally popped free she went flying across the cabin, a quantity of water pouring out of each boot top. She toweled his wet and cold body and gave him a drink of stale coffee topped with a generous portion of rum. He lowered himself into the pitching bunk and patted the area beside him.
“Your hair is still dripping! You’ll make the bed linens all moldy. Why would I get in bed with a stinky old squid like you, who doesn’t even ask how I fared and doesn’t know enough to get out of the storm?”
He patted the bed once more, and when she kept railing at him, turned his back to her. He felt her crawl into bed beside him, so he moved his icy feet in between her warm legs and fell asleep.
When he woke, Iluka was missing and daylight made its way through the porthole. It was only drizzling now, and the swells were unremarkable. He threw on whatever clothes he could find and went out on deck, scanning conditions and checking for damage. Sailors came up to him, all excited about the adventure now that it was over, and full of admiration for his seamanship in getting them through it with no hands lost. Mikil fretted about his health, inquiring again and again how he fared. A cabin boy came running to hand him a mug and a biscuit.
Nithanil ate the biscuit hungrily. He stared at the overcast sky and the immensity of gray ripples around them, realizing that he had no idea where they were. He didn’t answer anybody’s praise or concern.
He took a sip of equally bad coffee and spit it out over the side. Finally, he decided to speak. He cleared his throat, and everyone gathered near waited expectantly.
“We’re going to miss the Harvest Fest ceremony,” Nithanil said.
36
Cascada
Stahlia and Tilim had made the brick house in West Park cozy, or as cozy as any house that was twice as big as they needed could be.
Cerúlia made a practice of visiting West Cottage once a week for a meal. Her schedule was unpredictable—thus sometimes a messenger would ride over to say that the queen would be following in a few minutes, which put Stahlia into a panic about what to serve her. But Stahlia soon realized that her foster daughter came to her home to get away f
rom fancy food and fuss. If she caught Stahlia with only potatoes in her larder, the queen was happier dining on those roasted in the coals than on whatever the royal kitchens would serve.
When Darzner could send Stahlia decent notice, Stahlia would invite Percie, Marcot, and Lemle to join them. She would fix some familiar recipe from the Wyndton years. The six of them would forget that a squad of guards and that scary Zellishman surrounded the house and laugh like the old days. Lemle would tell them all about his apprenticeship and, shyly, about a grocer he’d been spending time with. Cerúlia would bring along a few of her dogs, and Tilim would play with them. Stahlia herself developed quite a crush on the white deerhounds, who were so silky and had delicate feet. When no one was watching she would slip them scraps.
Presently, all of Cascada was frantically preparing for the upcoming festivities. Fortunately most of the necessary cleaning and painting had already been done before Percie’s wedding. But palace carpenters and masons had to make the burned wing less of an eyesore; Vilkit had to prepare to feed and lodge all the guests; the councilors needed to map out the schedule of events, and so much more.
Stahlia wanted to be involved. Of course if she could have finished “Cerúlia and the Catamounts,” that would have been best, but such a complicated tapestry would take her years. Especially since she’d decided to change the picture in her mind by dressing the queen in her Sunset Gown, the color and folds of which would be so challenging.
Stahlia cast about for a contribution where she wouldn’t be in the way, but which was a task only she could do.
Eventually, she lit upon the under-groomed East Garden. The palace gardeners had been ordered long ago to focus on Arrival Avenue and the landscaping in the formal front of the building. With her eye for composition, her knowledge of Weir history, and her willingness to get her hands dirty, Stahlia could make this East Garden a credit again, a place where guests could stroll and take the air under the benign gaze of the Queens’ Statues.
Cerúlia embraced this idea enthusiastically and put funds at her disposal. The first thing Stahlia did was to transplant blue asters into the floral “riverbed” to make it flow again. But the garden was so big, so overgrown, and so weedy that soon she found herself laboring there from sunrise to sunset. She made Tilim help her after his lessons. When the engraving shop closed for the night, Lemle would join them too, the three of them often raking and weeding by lantern light.
And then the garden staff, seeing the queen’s closest relations working so hard, started to drift by when their first shift was done. Together the two crews trimmed bushes and brought down dead limbs or trees. Masons joined in by polishing the marble and repairing the walkways.
After a few weeks the garden glowed in the crisp autumn light with yellow goldenrod, silver dead nettle, purple sedums, yellow mums, and a river of blue and white asters. Red burning bushes blazed in a neat row, and maple leaves drifted in the wind. Once the rosebushes had been properly trimmed and fertilized—from Duchess Naven’s detailed written instructions—the banks of white roses sprang forth a final burst of blooms.
* * *
Captain Yanath called a meeting to discuss security for the upcoming festival. The eight officers convened in their duty room, which doubled as their dining mess. The rectangular stone room had a fireplace, a dartboard, and a few knocked-about upholstered chairs and footstools; the wall space was decorated with charcoal drawings that soldiers had idled away time with; these were primarily drawings of swords and horses, but also included a few landscapes. The other two walls held detailed maps of the palace and the grounds. Ten small private sleeping quarters branched off from the room, and the Shield barracks could be accessed from the south door, but the larger palace guards’ quarters were situated in a separate building.
Yanath and his second-in-command, Pontole, represented the Shield; Captain Athelbern and his four watch officers—two men from the previous regime and two younger women who added fresh perspectives and intelligence—spoke for the palace guard. Ciellō, the Zellish bodyguard, served as the queen’s representative.
“So, let’s begin,” said Yanath, calling the table to order.
“First item.” He ticked a list. “Let’s consider all our citizens who will be streaming in, either to be feted or as onlookers. We’ll set up tables at the gates and have people leave any weapons they might be carrying, but it would be helpful if folk left their gear at home.”
“What are we worried about?” asked Jadwinga, one of the new palace guard officers.
“Matwyck’s Marauders have never been fully accounted for,” Yanath explained. “And General Yurgn had quite an extensive spy network. With all these visitors to the building, might an assassin try to sneak in?”
“We should keep an eye on all the deliverymen too, in the week before,” offered Sergeant Tade.
“Good point,” said Yanath.
“On the days of the fests I ask the queen for four dogs,” said Ciellō, holding up his fingers. “Two for the Arrival Gate and two for the Kitchen Gate.”
Yanath said, “That would be very helpful. They could sort of smell out evil intent. But would that leave the queen herself low in terms of her canine corps?”
“We will not let her leave her wing until you close the gates after the audience has arrived and release the dogs,” Ciellō said.
For several minutes they discussed which days which squads should take gate duty and who would be in command.
“Moving on,” said Yanath. “Item two. The visiting royalty. They’ll be lodging in the Guest Wing. From Lortherrod, we will have the queen’s kinsmen: her grandfather and her uncle. We don’t know how many retainers and servants.”
“Do we know how many of their own soldiers they’ll bring?” asked Pontole.
“No. Anyone have a guess?” Yanath raised his eyebrows.
“Let’s ask Nana,” Athelbern suggested. “She’s the only one I can think of still around who will remember their habit from long ago when the Lorthers used to visit. If she doesn’t know we’ll have to have a councilor ask the envoys.”
“Right,” said Yanath. “Athelbern, will you talk to her today? And we’ll go with that number for the Rorthers too, who are sending King Kentros and Filio Kemeron.”
“I hear that the prince is coming to court our queen,” said Sergeant Tade with a grin.
The comment was not rude, but the man’s tone and smile grated on Yanath. He’d been looking at his list; his face muscles stiffened in disapproval. Picking up his head he started to reprimand, “Such is not our concern—”
With a thud, Ciellō’s dagger slammed into the wood of the table an inch from where the watch officer leaned on his elbow. Tade snapped his body back, while everyone else gaped in shock.
“Her personal life is not to be discussed,” said Ciellō. “Ever.”
“Of course,” said the threatened man, staring at Ciellō as if he’d gone insane. “I overstepped.”
“I’m glad we’ve all reached an understanding,” Yanath commented drily. “Let’s continue discussing how we will work with the guards of our distinguished guests.”
As the meeting broke up, Yanath asked Ciellō to stay behind. Yanath sat on the table, regarding the bodyguard whom he had come to respect, if not understand, over the last seven moons. Ciellō was about his size, though more muscled, and only a few years younger. The bodyguard rarely spoke and made no effort to make friends. He slept, ate, did his odd exercises, braided his odd hair, and then returned to his post beside the queen or outside her door.
Yanath had never seen him relax on duty; his eyes always watched for threats; his body stayed taut for action. While he was polite and respectful to the circle of the queen’s familiars, his manner never invited closer acquaintance.
“Ciellō,” Yanath remarked, “I had started a reprimand. When you brought out the dagger, you undermined my authority.”
“That—that was no my intent, Captain,” Ciellō said. “I believe that the que
en, she is fortunate to have your services. My apology.”
“Accepted,” said Yanath. “I share your sentiments that the Nargis Queen must never be spoken of with disrespect. But why did you feel it necessary to throw your dagger?”
“Perhaps,” the bodyguard replied, though he would not meet Yanath’s gaze, “all this talk of strangers in the palace and threats made me overreact.”
“I’ve never seen anyone so fast with a throw,” Yanath continued. “Long ago, I had a shieldmate, a woman named Seena—damn, she was fast!—but not like that. Can you teach us?”
“I can try. Only some people have the reflexes. That officer”—he motioned to the place where Jadwinga had been sitting—“she moved back the quickest.”
Yanath said, “Good. We’ll have a go. After all the festivities are safely behind us.”
37
On an afternoon a few days before the fest Percia found Stahlia deadheading some spent blossoms.
“Mama, I knew I’d find you here. I need your help with Birdie,” said Percie.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“She’s more nervous about this celebration than I’ve ever seen her. I don’t think she’s sleeping at night, and she’s certainly not eating. Right now she’s throwing a fit about her wardrobe.”
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