The Cerulean Queen

by Sarah Kozloff

  She patted the upholstery beside her. “Come sit next to me. If you touch me you’ll know I’m not a phantom.”

  At her invitation he crossed the width of the room, sat beside her, and took her hand in one of his. His other hand fingered a ringlet of her hair and then feathered across the back of her neck, just missing the ridged skin from her burn.

  Cerúlia held back a gasp of desire. “Thalen, I don’t want to shock you—”

  “Now you are worried about shocking me!”

  “No, listen, Thalen. I have scars.”

  “We all have scars,” he said, his index finger now tracing her lips.

  “These are different; I was burned.” She grabbed his moving hand so that he would attend to her. “You may find them unsightly. Ghastly.”

  His face grew serious. “If you trust me enough to show me your scars, I will show you mine. Mine are uglier, even if they do not show.”

  “Do you mean the ones hidden in here?” Cerúlia put her hand on his chest, feeling between the layers of silk that his heart too was beating fast.

  He nodded, his eyes dark.

  “Nothing you have done or thought or said will make you ugly in my eyes,” she told him. “I lived with you every day in Ink Creek and Emerald Lake. I know you too well, Commander Thalen.”

  “Not as well as you shall by morning,” he said, and he leaned his full weight against her, pushing her backward on the couch, and she giggled deep in her throat while a few tears leaked from the sides of her eyes and her body trembled with weariness, relief, and desire.

  47

  On Wave Racer

  The night the last clouds finally freed Wave Racer and scudded away, the sails sighed with a hint of laughter, and Nithanil, the king-that-was, used his brass astrolabe to measure the change in the constellation the Lorthers called Walrus Tusk. He determined they had been carried south of their course. He suspected too that they’d been pushed to the west—but how far he could only guess at by calculating the hours of the storm.

  Strangely enough, however, for such a ferocious test, the ship itself had sustained only minor damage, and the crew’s worst injuries were all survivable. But the decks, holds, cabins, and bilge sloshed with seawater; ribbons of kelp had gotten caught on spars, ladders, and poles, and slippery jellyfish and rotting minnows threatened to make the unwary slip. All hands set to more pumping, then vigorous swabbing and cleaning.

  They didn’t have enough fresh water to wash everything that had gotten dunked in seawater; Iluka festooned the deck with soggy covers and clothing, allowing the material to at least dry out in the sunshine. She wrung out smaller garments and kept fluffing and turning the larger, all while keeping up a steady grumble.

  Although her housekeeping was very much in the way of orderly sailing, and her petticoats flapping about compromised the professionalism of his deck, Nithanil ignored her. He plotted a course for Cascada, hoping that Lautan had no more nasty tricks up its seaweed sleeve.

  Toward sunset two days after the storm passed, the lookout came sliding down the mast as frantically as a rabbit runs from a hunting pack. “Seamaster, to the west I saw sails—I’m sure of it!—black sails.”

  “Only the Pellish use black sails,” Nithanil noted. “Which way are they headed?”

  “They’re far off; I couldn’t tell.”

  “Who has the sharpest eyes amongst the crew?” Nithanil asked his first mate.

  The mate called over the youngest sailor, who scampered up with Nithanil’s own spyglass draped about her neck, in a race against the failing light. As the sky dripped away the last of its glow, she slid down to report.

  “Not one ship,” she said. “At least twenty, perchance more. They head due north.”

  Nithanil’s mind had already jumped ahead. “An armada. And by their course … this is a full-frontal attack on Cascada.”

  “What can we do?” asked Mikil.

  Nithanil didn’t answer, but rather turned on his heel and led the way to his chart room. He noted with approval that sailors had already scrubbed the large wooden table, though it still boasted white whirls of salt. Tiny crustaceans had gotten lodged between the planks of the room’s wooden floor, making crunching sounds as the men walked about.

  The maps, which were always stored in brackets high up the wall and wrapped in oilskin, appeared undisturbed by the storm. Nithanil pointed to the two most relevant charts; a mate grabbed them down and everyone gingerly helped unroll them, discovering that while damp had ruined the edge of one and droplets had penetrated the body of another, both remained readable. The mates placed map weights to keep them flat, while Mikil lit both the overhead oil lamp and a hand lantern for good measure.

  Ignoring everyone’s impatience, Nithanil studied first one and then the other; Mikil leaned in too, but his father would give up not one inch of his captain’s prerogatives: with his hip he shoved his son out of the way.

  “We can’t do battle twenty to one. And we can’t outrun them to give a warning,” said Nithanil, calculating aloud. “But we must be converging near the shoals of the Cormorants”—his long finger pointed to a group of rocky isles—“and they’ll have to slow and disperse. They don’t know the tricky tides there. With Lautan’s luck, they’ll anchor at night to navigate during the light.”

  “What good will that do us?” asked the first mate.

  “We’ll board a laggard and take her over,” said Nithanil.

  “How will that help?” Mikil asked.

  “Not certain,” said Nithanil, scratching his beard, which always itched and itched more now when his thinner, aging skin had become inflamed by the weather and salt. “At least we’d be amongst the armada, able to cause a bit of mischief at the right moment, not shadowing behind.”

  As the men exited the chart room, Nithanil called low, “Son.”

  “Aye, Sire,” said Mikil.

  “You’re a priest or some such. It’s obvious, even to a blasphemous cuss like me, that Lautan has tossed us here to intercept this fleet. See if you can find out what the Old Blowhole has in mind.”

  So Nithanil ordered Wave Racer to put on all sail, paralleling the Pellish ships just out of sight. The Pellish should suspect no mischief this far from land. By the next day all the ships had scattered in the midst of the Cormorants; that night, as he had predicted, the Pellish set anchor.

  The Lorther vessel lurked, shielded by the rocky spires of the crags that provided roosts only for birds. Nithanil decided to send Mikil as the head of the boarding party; after all his son had had experience in hand-to-hand with the Pellish during the long campaign for the Green Isles. Mikil took their three longboats and grappling hooks, and set out with muffled oars, rowing around one of the larger isles.

  Nithanil would never admit that he was worried, yet instead of turning in, he kept watch on the deck. Iluka insisted on keeping him company, which really meant bothering him.

  “Stop scratching,” she ordered. “You’re making me crazy with your constant scratching. Besides, you keep rubbing off the salve. Let the itch alone or it’ll never settle down.”

  “Hmm,” he grunted at her, his hands busily tying knots in a new hank of rope. He’d lost his well-worn knot rope in the storm, and fresh ones always needed a lot of breaking in before they became soft and pliable enough for him.

  He spit on the rope a few times to moisten it.

  “That’s disgusting,” Iluka said. “Why don’t you use water instead? You, a king, and you’ve no more manners than a deckhand.”

  She continued nagging at him. “Don’t think you can get away with such tricks when we get to your grand-girl’s country! And don’t you look daggers at me when I have to remind you of how a gentleman should behave.”

  Nithanil pretended not to hear her. She moved around the deck—which was tolerably lit by the moons and the stars—clutching at the thicker materials that were still airing, muttering to herself about beating blankets with an oar to “knock the salt out of them.” The old man kn
ew that would never work: once you were at sea, everything took on a thick crust of salt. He liked it that way.

  He wondered what was happening with the boarding party and if his son or any of his longtime crew members had been injured.

  The knot rope was not allaying his anxieties. When Iluka circled back within arm’s reach, he grabbed her waist.

  “Stand still. Stay here.”

  He sent a deckhand for more rope, scraps of leather, and leatherworking tools. Iluka had obediently remained rooted to her spot on the deck, possibly wondering if he had Anticipated danger. The old man hadn’t meant to frighten her, but he did relish the moment of silence.

  When the sailor brought the requested supplies, Nithanil ordered, “Hold up your arms.” He wrapped the rope right above her breasts, all around her body, carefully measuring a little slack before he marked it so it wouldn’t chafe her but couldn’t slip over her shoulders. Then he did the same around her waist.

  “Stop tickling me. What you think you’re doing, ya old walrus?”

  “Hmm,” he just grunted in reply, but he moved under the deck lantern with the awl and his dagger to start poking holes in the leather.

  “What you making?” Iluka asked. “What does it have to do with me?”

  When he didn’t reply, she prodded his shoulder.

  “A harness,” he answered, as if he should be paid for two words.

  “A harness? Do you think I’m a horse now? Why would I need a harness?”

  “’Cause you’re not spry enough to climb down the netting. You’ll slip. And you’re so heavy you’ll capsize the boat.” Actually, he couldn’t take a chance that she’d fall into the dark water, but he was not about to admit the fact.

  “And you are spry enough? I’m as spry as you, you old goat!” Her hands were on her hips now, and her voice was loud enough for the watch to overhear. “Besides, why—pray tell—might I need to leave your precious ship and get into a boat? Are we about to sink? I thought you said that Wave Racer was the best ship in the navy.…”

  Nithanil stopped listening to her. Crafting the harness soothed him and allowed his mind to range ahead, and whenever her voice got louder he just manhandled her into the position he needed so he could adjust the fit exactly as he wanted it.

  Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, the watch called out, “Captain! Boat returning.”

  “How many?” Nithanil called out.

  “Just the one.”

  This was either very good or very bad news. Without being aware of what he was doing, his fingers tightened on Iluka’s shoulder. She patted his hand and stayed quiet.

  The second mate climbed up the net to relay the news that Prince Mikil had remained behind in possession of the Pellish ship, a lightly guarded and crewed supply vessel named Pexlia’s Possession.

  Mikil had taken the Pellish crew totally by surprise and had killed several dozen men before they surrendered.

  When Mikil had questioned the captured seamaster he learned that this cargo vessel served an armada of troop ships and war galleys heading to invade Cascada. Lautan’s Luck had saved them tonight: if they had chosen another ship they would have faced up to four hundred Oro soldiers. When Mikil’s men had examined the cargo they found mostly foodstuffs but also barrel after barrel with warnings written all over them.

  With extra inducement the Pellish seamaster had finally identified their contents.

  The ship was loaded to the gills with hemlock oil.

  “Prince Mikil couldn’t get anyone to admit it,” said the mate, “but he reckons they were planning to poison the Nargis headwaters.”

  Nithanil thought about this for a long moment, his mouth finding the idea distasteful. The king-that-was began snapping orders. First, he adjusted Wave Racer’s mooring, tethering it in a secure bay, leaving a skeleton crew to take care of his treasured personal vessel. Then, laboriously, the Lorthers transferred all crucial supplies, mariners, and his old biddy in the longboat to Pexlia’s Possession where Mikil awaited them. Just before sunrise his men assumed the shirts and hats of the Pellish sailors.

  The king-that-was couldn’t articulate the potential advantages of sailing among the Pellish armada in disguise. He just had a strong feeling of Anticipation that this was where they needed to be if they were to have any hope of assisting his grand-girl.

  Cascada Harbor lay a week’s journey away.

  “Mikil!” ordered his father. “Pour another libation to the Spirit of the Sea and sing your prayers.”

  Lautan, you crafty old blowhole. Lead on.

  48

  Cascada

  “Your Majesty?” came Nana’s voice, waking her up. “There are duties that can’t be put off.”

  “You will wait a few moments,” Cerúlia called.

  She slid into a night-robe while Thalen dressed himself.

  “When will I see you again?” he asked.

  “Tonight?”

  “I’ll wait for a message at the inn.”

  He kissed her roughly, as a promissory note, and when Cerúlia opened the door to her attendants, he walked out with perfect aplomb.

  Geesilla and Nana had brought a tray and a reminder that, taking advantage of the occasion that had gathered so many representatives and rulers, Councilor Nishtari had arranged an informal diplomatic meeting. The queen and her Circle Council were expected in the Nymph Salon in an hour to discuss matters of mutual interest with the Rorthers, Minister Destra, and various envoys.

  “There’s still no sighting of a Lorther ship?” the queen asked. “The Lorthers were to have been crucial participants at this too.”

  Receiving a negative, she went to her window and threw it open. She called to a nearby crow and sent it to summon some seabirds for instructions, though she had little hope that any avian scouts could find her kin’s vessel in the vast stretches of the Gray Ocean.

  By concentrating on the agenda concerning trade and security that Nishtari had prepared, Cerúlia managed (barely) to shove to the side her embarrassment over last night’s display and her own tumult of emotions. Her guests—even King Kentros and Filio Kemeron, who might have had the right to feel aggrieved—aided her by refraining in comment, tone, or gesture from remarking on her liaison. Only Duke Naven took advantage of her discomfiture, and even he kept himself to one bawdy wink.

  After a nice midmeal with foreign dignitaries (she would have to thank the kitchen workers), pressing administrative tasks flowed into the afternoon. Cerúlia sent Darzner to Vilkit for a preliminary report on the fest and learned that he had encountered no major difficulties and anticipated that, when totaled, their expenses would end up close to the amount budgeted.

  Captain Yanath reported that he had several mariners sleeping in the cells because they had gotten drunk last night and picked a fight with palace guards. Cerúlia shared an exasperated wince with him and told him to deal with them as he thought best.

  “I’ll talk to Seamaster Wilamara about the appropriate discipline,” he said. “There was one other worrisome incident yesterday morning. Two dogs took after a woman trying to enter through the Kitchen Gate.”

  “A servant or delivery person?”

  “The guards on duty said they thought she was nobility because she wore a velvet gown and her hair showed some amber strands. They thought it queer that she sued for entry from the Kitchen Gate. She had a pass from Red Rooster Vineyards that they kept ahold of—it looks on the up-and-up, but Vilkit doesn’t know who she could be. Anyways, the two dogs took instant dislike to her; they growled and lunged, and she gave a little scream and ran off into the crowd.”

  “Do you know which dogs were on duty?”

  “Two of the deerhounds.”

  “I’ll see if they remember what alerted them.”

  “Anyway, she didn’t get inside, and we’ve got our eyes peeled if she comes back.”

  “Good.” Cerúlia nodded absently.

  Her steward, Alix, came to her closet to confer about the visitors’ schedu
les: the Rorthers planned to depart tomorrow; Minister Destra had expressed a desire to visit the Abbey of the Waters, and Lord Marcot had offered to escort her and show her a sample of the countryside of the Weir duchies. Seamaster Wilamara had lookouts posted for the Lorther ship, whenever it would arrive.

  After conveying this news, Alix, seated across from her, coughed a fake cough.

  “If you have something to say, now is the time,” Cerúlia said.

  “Naven, Nishtari, and I had a private conversation”—Plink!—“with the Rorthers about the, uh, situation. We didn’t want them to depart angry or humiliated.…”

  “And?”

  “The king expressed a little disappointment and bewilderment, but the prince seemed … almost relieved. Filio Kemeron said that he now sees complications between such a match that might not have made it beneficial for either realm.”

  Cerúlia had been holding her breath; she let it out. “Well done. Keep assuring them how much we desire friendly relations with Rortherrod and that we could not have predicted how events would unfold.”

  Plink!

  Alix made no move to rise. Cerúlia lay down the seal in her hand and raised her brows.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but—”

  “If you must interfere with my personal life, this is as good a time as any.” Cerúlia gritted her teeth.

  “I consulted with Chronicler Sewel about the role of the Circle Council vis-à-vis a queen’s—ah—relations. He said that most past rulers have been more discreet about such affairs, but we should keep in mind the very unusual nature of your life history and your previous connection with Commander Thalen in a theater of war.”

  “I’m not sure I approve of your discussing who shares my bed with Sewel”—Plink!—“or anyone else.”

  “Forgive the effrontery. But you must acknowledge that as queen your personal life has ramifications for the realm. And you have no parents to guide you in these matters.

  “So Sewel informed me that while the council has no authority over a queen’s love affairs—”