by Chloe Neill
The ships’ three captains—Preston, Smith, and Thornberry—awaited her at the table, along with a steward perched behind it, quill and notebook at the ready. The captains were dressed formally, gold gleaming, blue wool brushed, hair arranged just so. Two men: one tall, one short. Both with pale skin. Preston, shorter, with tidy gray hair. If memory served, he was the Lucida’s captain. Thornberry, with dark hair that swept forward nearly to his eyebrows, was the taller of the two. He had the Divine.
Smith, of the Delphine, was the only other woman in the room. She had pale skin, short steel-gray hair, and green eyes.
None of them rose from their seats when she walked in. Preston and Thornberry looked her over and, given their smug smiles, apparently found her lacking.
Kit steeled herself for condescension, and continued tamping down her anger.
“Welcome aboard the Lucida,” Preston said. “Have a seat.”
She considered staying on her feet, but decided that would make her feel as if she were reporting to the trio, so she kept her smile casual, slid out a chair, sat fluidly down, a woman in utter control.
“Thank you,” she said, and glanced at them in turn. “You may not yet be aware, but the magic in the Narrow Sea has, for reasons we don’t yet understand, become erratic. We realized it felt unbalanced when we left New London for Finistère. As we moved southwest, the sensation disappeared, and the current seemed normal again. But the imbalance has returned again as we’ve come east. The magic is uneven and breaking, which I’ve not experienced in my many years of Alignment.”
The men exchanged a knowing look. “Now that you’ve brought up magic,” Preston said, “perhaps it is best we start by clearing the air.”
“‘Clearing the air,’” Kit repeated.
Preston nodded. “We thought it best, as professionals, to speak plainly about the involvement of magic in this mission. We’re aware you are Aligned. While we understand that magic and Alignment can have a certain . . . role . . . in sailing, we have decided all strategic decisions in this particular mission will be determined based on Crown Command protocols and our experience. Not magic.”
There it was, Kit thought. The gauntlet tossed. They’d “decided”—without her input and despite the fact that they wouldn’t even know about the ship but for the Diana’s efforts.
“You’ve decided,” Kit echoed blandly.
Preston linked his fingers together. “Correct.”
“And you’re aware the queen specifically ordered the Diana to make use of the Alignment of its crew?”
Preston sighed wearily. “Kit—”
“Captain Brightling,” she corrected. “We are colleagues, and this is not a personal discussion.”
His jaw worked. “Captain Brightling,” he corrected stiffly. “I think we can all agree, as experienced professionals, that there is no precedent for a captain as young as yourself, much less in a glorified packet ship, to determine the fate of three frigates based on the hunch of one of its officers. That cannot have been what the queen intended.”
“Glorified packet ship,” she said quietly, offense obvious in her tone.
“You’re young,” Thornberry said, ignoring it. “And given you’ve obtained the rank of captain, and you’re a very becoming young woman, I’m sure you have some . . . talents.” But his tone—and the fact that his gaze settled on her chest—said he doubted her talents had anything to do with sailing. “Nonetheless, this is not some”—he searched for a word—“dalliance in the Narrow Sea.”
Kit gave him a look of disgust. “I doubt the Frisians at San Miguel would call their encounter with me a dalliance, nor were they overly concerned with my attractiveness.”
“The Diana isn’t a frigate,” Smith put in quickly, as if trying to remedy the obvious offense. “It has no guns.”
Kit shifted her gaze to the woman. “Precisely. If the queen meant for us to join this mission for our arsenal, we’d have been a very poor choice indeed. Which means she intended us for other tasks. And there is no mere ‘hunch.’”
Preston’s mouth thinned. He was probably not used to being challenged, much less by someone he deemed completely inferior. “We sail based on intelligence and science,” he said, with an air of determination. “Not magic.”
Nor, apparently, the queen’s express orders.
They bore the same rank as she did—all captains. But they’d sailed longer, and they sailed larger vessels. And their experience apparently hadn’t brought much wisdom.
“So, to be clear,” Kit said, “you believe it is strategically wise to ignore not only the queen’s orders, but the obvious changes in the sea’s magic?”
“We read her orders differently,” Thornberry said.
“And the Aligned members of your crew,” Kit said, ignoring him. “Have you asked them? Inquired if they’ve sensed any change?”
“There are none who are Aligned on my ship,” Preston said. “I don’t allow it.”
More likely, Kit thought, his Aligned sailors simply refused to admit it. “Dunwood said the Guild intends its ships to utilize magic.”
“There’s no hard evidence magic is involved. Gerard would be happy for a navy of his own regardless.”
“I doubt Dunwood would have spun the tale from air,” Kit said dryly.
“Perhaps he misheard, or was misled,” Preston said. “Or perhaps you did. That would hardly have been the only failure at Finistère. Not a terribly successful mission, was it?”
Preston knew where to strike, Kit thought, and she couldn’t fault his aim. But she’d made what peace she could with Dunwood’s death.
“Given we rescued Dunwood and preserved the intelligence he’d gathered, and this mission exists only because of that intelligence, I’d suggest Finistère was quite successful. You’ll know, of course, that he incurred grievous wounds and fell ill before we arrived, and was quickly removed to the Diana and treated there. If there’s a new cure for fever of which we aren’t aware, please do share your expertise.”
Thornberry opened his mouth to respond, but Preston put a hand on his arm. “We are, of course, devastated by the loss of such a fine Crown asset. But this decision has been made, and it has been made by officers who have considerably more experience than you do.”
She let silence fall again, and looked at each of them in turn. They all met her gaze; Preston and Thornberry without hesitation, and Smith with at least a small morsel of apology in her eyes.
Refusing to acknowledge magic was shortsighted and foolish. And then a thought occurred, one that Kit didn’t care for. There was a traitor in the Crown Command—someone who had given up Dunwood’s identity and position—to support Gerard’s plans. Could Gerard have hoped for a better response from the Crown Command’s officers to a mission intended to thwart those plans—giving up one of their most useful tools?
She didn’t have the stomach to dwell on that possibility, so she filed it away to ferment. In the meantime, she worked to keep her voice exceedingly calm.
Kit rose. “This is a mistake. I object to this course of action, and that will be noted in my log. You may, of course, make whatever decision you deem appropriate as to your ships. You captain them, after all. But I am not part of your crew, nor am I on your ship, and I am not beholden to your authority. The queen has given me orders, and I will follow them in the manner I deem most appropriate, including by use of magic.”
“Be careful, Captain, that you don’t place your own ego over the needs of the Crown.”
“Thornberry,” Smith muttered, a warning. But Thornberry’s predatory smile was unapologetic.
Kit paused, glanced back at him, her expression quizzical. “Be careful, Captains, that you do not confuse your own arrogance with concern for the queen or the Crown.”
And she left them staring.
* * *
Kit held her tongue until she’
d reboarded the Diana, and the crew stifled any questions they might have asked when they saw the look on her face.
“Make sail and follow the squadron,” Kit said to Jin. “You have the helm.”
“Aye, Captain,” Jin said, lifting his brows at the order, but wise enough not to challenge it.
She went below to burn away the better part of her anger, given she suspected the captains would have told the Lucida sailors to watch her and report back about her reaction. She wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing a tantrum.
She opened the door to her cabin, found Grant sitting at her table, and stared at him. “What in gods’ names are you doing in my quarters?”
He looked up from his small book. “I heard you stomping on the deck and presumed you’d want to discuss our mission.”
She just growled. “I do not stomp.”
“Then I withdraw my comment. Your strides are purposeful and intentional. I was waiting here in anticipation of the captains’ behavior being less than genteel. I surmise I was correct.”
“‘Less than genteel,’” Kit repeated in a mutter. “There was no discussion, no debate, no dialogue. There was dismissal. Orders were handed down.” She took a seat at the table, told him what they said, what they’d done.
Grant’s dark smile made her feel better. “And yet, they live?”
“Running through fellow captains is generally frowned upon.”
“Yes, I can see how that might negatively affect morale. I don’t know Smith,” he said. “I know Preston and Thornberry, albeit as aristocrats, not sailors.”
“That’s enough, I imagine.”
“It is.” Grant frowned, crossed his arms. “They refuse to use magic, despite the intelligence that the Guild is using magic to support Gerard. And despite the queen’s orders?”
“They read the orders differently, they say. And see no point in listening to the whims of females—queen or captain.” She frowned. “Could it be them? Preston or Thornberry? Could they be the traitors?”
Grant’s brows lifted. “You’re asking if either of two highly regarded captains in the Crown Command are passing information to Gerard?”
“Ignoring the evidence of magic manipulation will benefit him.”
Grant considered this in silence. “Are you aware of the Prefects?”
She frowned. “University prefects?”
“The Prefects,” he clarified. “It was a secret society created in the drawing room of some posh New London home, I’m led to understand, by men who doubted a queen could effectively rule the Isles.”
“Created when Richard died,” Kit guessed, and Grant nodded.
“Charlotte was young and beautiful and smart and very, very savvy. But she did not have the same ties to the titled as her father. She didn’t see much point in them,” Grant added, “which led many of the titled to contend she was incapable of effectively ruling the nation.”
“And yet they live?” Kit asked with a smile.
“The queen is aware of their existence, but decided to exercise her will by ignoring them and turning her attention to being a good regent. The club no longer exists formally, but many of the members share the same views—that her decisions will never be sound because she is female.”
“And Preston and Thornberry were members of this society?”
He nodded.
“Little wonder they think me incapable of performing my job. Or that their intellect is superior to mine. But Smith is a woman, and she made no argument. Granted, even women in positions of authority don’t always—can’t always—challenge the usual state of affairs.”
Grant linked his hands on the table. “What’s your true concern?”
“That we’ll discern something they don’t. That I’ll feel something in the sea, or Tamlin in the air, and they’ll ignore it to the detriment of their crews—and mine.”
“At least you have one thing to look forward to.”
“What’s that?”
His smile was wry. “When it all goes to hell, you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you were right.”
“If their behavior hurts my crew,” she said, “hell is what I will rain down upon their heads. That’s a promise. And, Grant?”
He lifted his brows.
“If I find you in my cabin again without my permission, they won’t be the only ones facing hell.”
Nineteen
Kit let the frigates take the lead; they did have the guns, after all. The Diana stayed within the ships’ draft, watching and waiting . . . and listening while the gaps in the current became more frequent and larger, as if parts of it had somehow been chopped away.
They hadn’t yet needed to run, not with Preston and the others in front. But concern she wouldn’t be able to call upon that power if the need arose had her trying it . . .
. . . and faltering.
There simply wasn’t enough power to push the Diana—not even within that thin electric core. With each mile, the magic grew weaker, and her head pounded more fiercely. And it hadn’t escaped Kit’s notice that each mile was drawing them closer to Forstadt.
“Forstadt has to be the source,” she said, staring again at a map of the Gallic and Frisian coasts, as if some detail, some obvious cause, would suddenly snap into her attention. “But how can magic break?” Kit asked, and not for the first time. “Either it is, or it isn’t.”
“There are nulls, yes?”
Startled at the sound of Grant’s voice, Kit looked up, found him standing beside her, his brow furrowed. “What?”
“Areas without magic. You said it wasn’t evenly dispersed.”
“Yes,” she said, and rubbed her temples, as if that might dislodge the tension, “but this isn’t a null. Nulls are common; the magic simply doesn’t reach there. But this is . . . an absence. There was magic here, but it’s been diminished. It has faded.”
“Have you eaten today?”
“I—what?”
“You’ve been staring at that map for nearly an hour, and I don’t think you’ve left the deck in several.”
“I’m fine,” she said, even as she realized her stomach rumbled with hunger and the ache in her head was pulsing. “I’m fine. I just . . . need answers,” she said, and scrubbed at her face. “I need to understand how something far distant from our location is breaking magic—diminishing magic—here. I need to know why. Until I know, I can’t prepare my crew.”
“The Guild could be facing the same problems.”
“The Guild might well be making the problem,” she corrected. “Dunwood said the Guild is building a new ship intended to use magic. The dispatch identified Forstadt as an important island in the effort to put Gerard back on the throne. The magic gets fainter as we move closer to Forstadt. We put those things together, and the Guild has created a ship that breaks magic, either intentionally or inadvertently. And there’s nothing I can do about it, no damned protocol I can follow that will give me any better insight.”
She paced to the stern, looked out over the sea and the wake that trailed the Diana. “If I don’t know the cause, I don’t know how to protect us—to protect them. I don’t care for that.”
“To be out of control?” Grant asked, and the amusement in his voice irritated her further. “No, I imagine that doesn’t fit you especially well. And while I’m far from being a skilled sailor, I’ll remind you that you aren’t a captain because you can follow protocols, but because you can make good decisions in times of crisis, even with limited information. Trust yourself, even if you can’t trust the magic.”
She looked back at him, gaze narrowed. “That’s remarkably sensible.”
“So is having tea. I understand Cook has reserved a meat pie.”
That was enough to have her moving.
* * *
She ate and filled, at least, the hole in her be
lly. But it didn’t clear away the worry. If the Guild’s activities were responsible for this, what horrors might they face next? She thought of gristmills and mechanization, and wondered if the world was on the cusp of something very, very dangerous.
Two hours later, she got a taste.
The wind stopped. The sea went glassy. And without the wind to fill their canvas, four ships lay still and silent in the water.
The doldrums, sailors called it, because a sea without wind led to melancholy and fear. Sailors lived in awe of the wind and relied on its mercy; its absence spawned the fear that somehow, this time, the wind would not return, and they’d be stranded. Utterly helpless.
It wasn’t the first time she’d experienced the doldrums; it was common enough. They’d been becalmed before, had faced days without wind. But this was different, as the wind wasn’t the only thing affected. The magic was a bare pulse in the water.
So even as the Guild’s shipwrights made progress on their weapon of war, the queen’s fleet sat in the middle of the Narrow Sea.
The windless air was as oppressive as wet wool. Every hatch and porthole on the boat was open, but there wasn’t breeze enough to push air through them. Uniform jackets were discarded in the first two hours, and Kit’s hair was still damp from a trip into the hold, where she tried without success to feel a current strong enough to give them options.
“There is no wind,” Simon said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, “and you said there’s nearly no magic. Can those be related?”
“Manipulating magic can affect the weather,” Kit said. “But I don’t know if that’s what’s happened here. There’s no way for us to know until something changes, until something happens.” And until then, they had to bloody wait.
She was still in pain—couldn’t deny the absence of magic, or the weather was affecting her physically—in addition to being angry and irritable. She wanted to blame this on someone—preferably Preston, Thornberry, and Smith. But they hadn’t taken the wind. Maybe, if they’d listened to her warning, heeded it, Kit could have steered them toward a different course. But maybe not. Maybe this was unavoidable. Maybe they’d be stuck here for a week while the Guild continued its work.
