by Chloe Neill
“Aye, Captain,” Jin said with a satisfied smile, and the relay of orders began. Men were already on the foremast yard to unfurl the square topgallant, and she was sheeted home, tightened against the wind, masts and rigging creaking as the Diana surged forward.
The process was repeated—canvas raised or unfolded, lines tightened, the Diana offering mild complaints against the tension on her hull, but increasing her speed all the same.
Kit’s smile was slow and satisfied, and her heart began to pound again. She understood the stakes, understood the risk. Understood the likelihood that she, or some of her crew, would be injured. But they’d do it with sails flying, charting their own course. And there was little more that a sailor could ask for.
Except, in this case, for a viscount.
She looked at Grant. “I need you to be my eyes.”
He blinked back surprise. “Pardon?”
“It’s easier to read the water if I close my eyes—shut out the distractions. But I could use someone to give an eye on our visible location. I need Jin giving orders, Simon at the wheel. That means it falls to you.”
Grant lifted a brow. “Not entirely flattering, being third choice.”
“Third on a ship of nearly two dozen,” Kit pointed out, “and an army man at that. So it’s really quite a compliment.”
“In that case, I can hardly decline.” His tone was mannerly, but there was a glint in his eye. Amusement or eagerness, she wasn’t sure. He moved to stand beside her.
“We’re ready, Captain,” Jin said, and Kit gave one last look at the gun brig, the castle of canvas. And prepared to ground it.
“First tack is around Black Island,” Kit said. “Hard to port on my mark.” She glanced at Grant. “You recall which side is port?”
“You’re terribly amusing. And yes.”
She smiled at him. “Excellent. And hang on. These turns are going to be tight.”
He nodded, the same battle readiness in his eyes as the others’, and looked ahead.
Kit put a hand on the steering cabinet to steady herself, closed her eyes, and drifted down as the crew went silent, waiting for her command. Deep water to port, shallower to starboard, the current stochastic and broken among the rocks and the remains of ships that finally had run out of luck.
“We’re nearing the channel between the islands,” Grant said.
“I can feel it,” she said quietly as the current sped, magic filling the deeper void between rocky outposts. The Diana would need to thread that channel just so, and she waited . . . then a bit more . . . for the timing . . .
“Three . . . two . . . one.” Her words were quiet, her concentration intense. “Mark.”
They tacked hard to port, the Diana keeling, deck tilted, as she pushed against ocean and inertia, and putting their side in the scope of the gun brig.
She knew the gun brig would take the chance and fire, because it was the same thing she’d have done. Kit felt the sea brace, contract as if repelled. And understood its reaction immediately.
“Incoming!” someone called out.
“Brace for impact!” Jin shouted, and she could hear the shift of wood and canvas as sailors ducked.
Two shots flew toward them, the sound following behind. She opened her eyes, watched the ball strike the water twenty feet from the hull, sending spray into the air that doused the sheets, but doing no damage.
“It’s tacking,” someone called out as sailors rose again with shouts of victory; firing at that angle would be useless. But this was only the Diana’s first turn. There would be others, and the gun brig would push closer for a better shot.
Which was exactly what Kit wanted. She settled her shoulders, closed her eyes again. “Grant?”
“Black Island on the starboard side.”
“Straighten her out,” Kit said. “North-northeast until my mark.”
“Aye, Captain,” Jin said, and the course was shifted until the ship was upright again, no longer leaning into the hard turn.
“We’re past Black Island,” Grant said a minute later.
“Kestrel next,” Kit said. And reached for the water again. The shallows around Black Island had been almost neatly distributed, like a crisp crust around the isle’s perimeter. But Kestrel was different, less uniform.
“Too shallow along the southeastern side,” she murmured, feeling the high ridge of rock and coral. “Keep her in the deep,” she said. “It’s rougher here.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“We’re two hundred yards offshore,” Grant said. Kit could hear the cacophonous scream of seabirds from an island she surmised was covered with them.
“Stay the course,” Kit said, pushing forward until she pushed through the water, and felt the ridge just off the island’s eastern shore.
“There’s a reef,” she said. “We’ll tack south around Kestrel between Kestrel and Black, then north-northeast. And if we get close enough without losing our own keel, we’ll lead them into it.”
“How close?” she heard Jin call out, concern in his voice.
“We may scrape a few barnacles off the hull,” she said with a smile, eyes still closed. “But if they’re focused on stopping us before we get into the Narrow Sea, this is their best opportunity. They may be foolish enough to risk it. Given they’re chasing an Isles ship without a declaration of war, they’re foolish enough. Jin, douse the stunsails. Let them get closer.”
There was no hesitation, regardless of the danger of the order. “Aye, Captain,” Jin said, and the order went out. The crew understood naval tactics, but still didn’t relish the idea of slowing down with a cannon-loaded ship behind them. But they trusted their captain as much as she trusted them.
The stunsails were hauled in, stowed, the Diana slowing.
“We’re coming up on the edge of the island,” Grant said.
“I can feel it,” Kit confirmed, its bulk like a blank spot in the water, an absence. The deep channel between and beyond. And beyond it, shallow water and the jagged reef, diamond sharp.
“We’ll be within their firing range, so stay ready, and stay careful.”
Shouts of “Aye” came from the deck, and then it went silent again but for the rush of water, the creak of rigging.
“On my mark,” she said again. “Three. Two. One. Mark.”
The order was made, the Diana heeling again as she was brought sharply south-southeast around the island.
The gun brig took its shot almost instantaneously. Kit felt the concussion, the air tightening as shots exploded toward them.
“Incoming!” was shouted again, and the crew braced.
Kit opened her eyes. The first struck the hull with a crack that Kit could feel through her bones. Wood and men flew through air now smeared with smoke and the acrid scent of gunpowder.
The second flew through the gunwale, sending splinters flying like arrows. It bullied through rigging and then fell through the deck.
“It’s tacking,” Simon called out.
“Have March see to the wounded,” Kit told Jin. “And get Oglejack downstairs to check the hull.”
Kit wouldn’t worry about that, not now. Not when the damned gun brig was still bearing down on them. Kit loved speed, but she was impatient, and she was particularly losing patience for a vessel making an unsanctioned attack on her ship—damaging her ship and hurting her people—in international damned waters.
“Kanos’s balls,” she muttered, and wondered if she should have thrown a dozen coins into the sea when they’d left New London.
“This is it,” she called out, focusing again on her job and closing her eyes. “Grant?”
“I’m with you. I can see the chop ahead—the water’s lighter.”
As was the magic, Kit thought, the current was choppier again. Beyond them, to port, was the reef, just offshore. She needed to find the t
hreshold around it, and sail just along that line. And then tempt the gun brig into crossing it.
She waited until they were close, until sweat covered her brow and coral seemed to prick at her fingers. “Three . . . two . . . one. Mark.”
They bore toward port, the ship creaking like an old woman, listing in the turn.
Kit opened her eyes, looked back. The gun brig cut in just behind them, aimed at the Diana’s flank—its position just slightly farther north. If it wanted to fire again, it would have to sail right over the reef.
Both ships took a risk. Both ships hoped the benefit would outweigh the cost.
Kit saw the spark as the gun brig fired. “Incoming!” she screamed, but the sound of the cannons drowned her voice.
Three shots this time, whistling . . . and then there was chaos.
One ball glanced off the port bow, tore through rigging, and had the flying jib flapping. The other hit forward near the forecastle, shattering glass and punching another hole through the deck.
Kit watched in horror as the third struck the top portion of the mainmast, just above where Tamlin perched. A snap broke the air like lightning, and the topmast split away, taking sails and rigging—and Tamlin—with it, plunging into the sea.
“Man overboard!” someone called as the Diana listed to the side, pulled down by the weight of sails and rigging and wood.
“Cut it away!” someone yelled, and fear gripped Kit’s heart like a fist. She took off toward the bow, but Grant, long legs pumping, was faster, looked over the gunwale.
“She’s in the rigging!” he called out. “And she’s holding on. Don’t cut it away—haul it in!”
Kit forced herself to trust him, to join the line of sailors who heaved, arm over arm, to pull up the tangle of rope and wood.
And then Grant was reaching out, and he and Sampson pulled Tamlin over the side. Her eyes were wide, her skin even paler than usual, her red hair wet and streaming.
But she was alive.
“Dastes,” Kit said, refusing to think how close they’d been to tragedy, and reminded herself to throw a coin later.
“Take her down to March,” Kit said as Sampson scooped Tamlin in his arms. “And get the mess cut away. Keep anything worth salvaging.” And because she still had a crew to lead, trusted Sampson and March just as she’d trusted Grant, and went back to the helm, looked back at the gun brig.
“Status?”
“Still moving, Captain,” Jin said.
“Anytime now,” Simon murmured.
They heard the grinding crunch across the water, looked back to see the gun brig lean, then come to a full stop as hull and coral came to blows. And coral won, even as the masts began to tilt, the sails still full of wind.
There were shouts of glee from the Diana, shouts of fury and fear from the gun brig as they ran for the masts, prepared to cut them down to keep from tearing their ship apart.
“Take that, ya bastards!” August said, shaking a fist in victory.
He finally got one right.
Fourteen
Kit stayed on deck until the sails were no longer visible, until the topmast and rigging were cut away. And then she wiped her brow, looked down at the streak of soot on her shirt, and realized she was filthy from the explosions.
They’d been attacked—an Isles ship—during peacetime. She’d need to relay the entire tale to the queen. But since they had no way to get that message off the ship at present, there were more critical matters to see to.
“Jin, you have the helm,” she said, and didn’t wait for his response. She went below, wincing at the ache in her ribs as she climbed down, moved swiftly forward where the ball had struck. She needed to check her injured crew, but if the Diana’s wound wasn’t stanched first, none of them would make it home.
She made her way forward. By the time she reached the forecastle, she was sloshing in ankle-deep water.
The ship’s carpenter, a tall and thin man whose skin and hair were nearly the same ruddy shade, was nailing a barrel head atop the Diana’s hull. The sky shone through the splintered wood, and water dribbled through as the waves rushed by.
“How bad is it?” she asked as the others in the room came to attention.
“Captain,” Mr. Oglejack said. “The patch’ll keep most of the water out, but I can’t keep her entirely dry. Not at sea.”
“Because you’d have to pull out the entire plank.”
“That’s it exactly, Captain. We can fill in a bit more,” he said, and gestured to sailors near the bow who were unraveling old rope into thinner cords, which they’d drive into the gaps with a mallet.
“Hold’s still dry,” Oglejack continued, “and there’s more work to be done, including the topmast.”
“Do we have a spare yard?”
“Aye, several, and we can fix that right enough, but we’re tackling the structural problems first.”
“A good plan, and good work. Keep at it, and let Jin or one of the lieutenants know if you need more men or supplies.”
“Aye, Captain,” he said, and turned back to his people. “Wells, not like that! For gods’ sake, you’ve got to take to it like a lover. Gently, man. Gently.”
Good for Mrs. Oglejack, she thought, and headed aft.
* * *
Humans still had much to learn about the workings of the body. And Kit was never more certain of that proposition than when she stepped into an onboard surgery. But the mess was empty of people now but for March, who’d begun to clean up the detritus of healing.
“How many limbs did we lose in here?” Kit asked, swallowing down instinctual horror at the blood on the floor.
March glanced back. “Captain, sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” She still wore her canvas apron, and now it was smeared and streaked with soot and blood. And probably worse.
“No lost limbs,” she said as she scrubbed blood from beneath her short nails. “Lieutenant Phillips was struck in the head by a good chunk of the rail; he’s unconscious but resting. Ms. Teasdale took a pretty large splinter in her side. I was able to remove it, and she’s resting with a poultice. Most of this is hers,” she said, nose wrinkled. “Tamlin’s a bit dizzy yet, and Mr. Cordova’s got a fairly serious broken arm. They’re all in their respective berths. The other injuries are minor.” She held up a finger. “Oh, but for one human bite.”
Kit just stared at her. “I’m sorry. Did you say—”
March’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Aye, Captain. A human bite.”
“But we didn’t engage with the enemy that closely. They didn’t get near the Diana.”
“Oh, aye,” March said again with a widening grin. “But August got a bit excited running about during the chase, and he slipped on the deck. And when Ms. Fahri tried to help him up, August clamped right down on her ankle with what remains of his teeth.”
Kit looked skyward. “For gods’ sake.”
“August told me he had worked his family’s farm during the war,” March said. “Missed out on what he calls ‘the good fighting.’ So he takes every fight a bit more seriously than he ought.”
Given he would have been in his fifties during the war, Kit wondered what work he might have done, or what “good fighting” he’d have been allowed to do. She’d never assigned him to an away team, and they’d sailed together for nearly a year. Maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe he needed a better outlet.
She shook her head to clear it. August was the least of her concerns right now.
“Let me know if anything changes,” Kit said, and felt suddenly tired. The adrenaline had drained away now, leaving her empty.
She walked out and moved down the corridor. She found Grant still in the small chair in Dunwood’s cabin. But instead of Dunwood’s pale but smiling face, she found an empty bed.
All the breath left her. “He’s gone.”
; “It was the fever. It happened fast.”
That was something, at least. She’d seen her share of sailors who hadn’t had the luck to go quickly.
“I am so sorry,” she said, though those words seemed insufficient. “So very sorry.”
“I’m sick of war,” Grant said. “I was sick of it before. And sick of it more now.” He put his head in his hands, ran his fingers through his hair, and kept them there. “I didn’t want to be here, on this damned boat. I have other problems to solve, my own concerns. And I certainly didn’t want to have failed him. Damnation,” he said, and sat up again, rested his head against the wall behind him. “Damnation.”
Kit had been a sailor long enough to hear the sound of one near the end of his figurative rope—and that it was her job, her responsibility, to pull him back. She’d also learned enough about Grant in the last few days to figure how to do that.
“Self-pity won’t bring him back.”
“Leave me be.”
“I won’t. And as this is my ship, you’ve no authority to order me about.”
Slowly, he turned his head to look at her. “Is this the time to flaunt your rank, Captain?”
“If the other option is you stewing in self-blame, then yes. Grieve for your friend, rage at the men who took his life. And then prepare for what’s next.”
“Is it easy to be so cold?”
She looked at him. “Never,” she said, her tone smooth. “But I’m the captain. I’m not allowed to stop, not allowed the luxury of dwelling on my failures, no matter how cruel they are.”
Grant dropped his head back again, squeezed his eyes closed.
“We left New London within hours of learning of his capture,” Kit said after a moment. “We sailed with all possible speed—and magic—to Finistère, and we got him out of that gods-forbidden fortress. He did not die in the hands of enemies in a stinking dungeon. If he was to go, I am glad he went here, in warmth and comfort, and in the company of a friend.”
After a moment, Grant opened his eyes. “Do you truly believe that?”
