Air and Ash

by Alex Lidell

  My breath catches as I watch her hold on the ropes waver. “Hold fast!” I holler to her over a sudden pounding headache, but the wind steals my call.

  Her grip trembles but holds, and I breathe easy again, though the headache remains. The pressure pains had disappeared for three days after I fainted in the gunroom, but then returned, laying siege, trying to catch me under stress or fatigue. I shake it off. It’s just a headache.

  “What was that noise, Mr. Dana?” Rima frowns up into the shrouds. “Has one of the piglets escaped and donned a middie uniform?”

  A few men and women chuckle.

  Bastards. I scowl at the captain’s back.

  Domenic checks the weather glass and shakes his head. “Shall we reduce sail, sir?”

  Of course we should, but no one is asking me.

  “Did you hear Dana?” Rory whispers. “The sadistic bugger wants to send more of us aloft to mess with the sails. We’ll fall, one of us.” He looks out at the angry sea the Aurora is riding, and his face pales. “We’ll never pull a man up from overboard. Not in this sea.”

  “Reduce sail?” Rima barks. “You would make the Aurora late to the convoy, Mr. Dana? And what will you tell the merchants whose ships get ransacked while they wait? That the Aurora was so soft, it feared a bit of sea? That we failed to protect them because we were too frightened to set sail?”

  “We’ll be of little aid to the merchants if we lose a mast or steerage, sir,” Dana says evenly.

  “We shall lose neither,” says Rima. “Not in this little breeze. If you care nothing for our charges, then consider the effect on your career if the Admiralty believes us so lazy as to stall our orders.”

  Domenic’s cheeks redden, and several pleased smirks run among the deck crew. I think such disrespect toward a ship’s first officer—the next in command after the captain—is disgusting. Especially before the hands.

  Rima strokes his mustache. “One thing, though, Mr. Dana,” he says in quieter tones. “These seas are unsafe for the inexperienced midshipmen. Recall Song and Sand to deck, if you please.”

  Rima’s two nephews. My mouth thins. Not even a show of impartiality.

  None of the hands look surprised. Or offended. I’d once had an Eflian diplomat advise me never to trust a man who showed no bias toward his kin, for a man with little loyalty to family would have none to a stranger.

  “Tamim, Rory.” Domenic calls out names without looking at the crew. “Relieve Mr. Song and Mr. Sand aloft.”

  Beside me, Rory jerks, takes a step forward, and freezes. His eyes widen, skidding between the shrouds and the sea. He teeters on the edge of refusing the order, and if he does… I tighten my jaw. I’ve ordered sailors aloft by means of lash, and their faces haunt me since. It is unjust but necessary. A ship of war demands work in the shrouds.

  Domenic turns, seeking for the cause of delay.

  Rory licks his lips. “I don’t think I can just now, sir, just this once.”

  “You don’t think you can.” Domenic adjusts his hat. His voice is cold. “You may think on your own time. On mine, you will do what is needed.”

  Waves and hail, Domenic. Rory is young and strong, but he is too frightened to be of much use aloft just now—if he will go at all. I’m starting to doubt the probability of the latter.

  Rory’s face is ashen now, and his hands tremble at his sides. Domenic should have looked before he gave his orders. He hadn’t, and that put him on a likely path to having to flog the young man.

  Unless I throw them a lifeline.

  I take a step forward and place myself before the first officer. “I volunteer to go up, sir.”

  Chapter 13

  A small murmur runs amongst the hands.

  Domenic looks down at me. “Ash. I was unaware I’d asked for volunteers.”

  Anger flashes in my eyes. Surely he understands where the mess with Rory is heading. I’m giving Domenic a means to avoid a flogging, to change his order before it’s refused. And the damn man is hesitating. I long to yell as much back at him, but I square my shoulders and pierce him with my gaze instead. The pressure in my head grows, pounding in rhythm with my heart.

  “Seaman Rory.” The warning in Domenic’s voice chills me. “Relieve Mr. Sand, if you please.”

  Nothing. No movement.

  I shift my weight, blocking Domenic’s view. I demand his attention.

  Domenic’s eyes snap to me, ice blue against the challenge of my gaze. His shoulders square in echo of mine. “Rory.” Domenic’s voice is low, and, despite directing his words to the seaman, it’s me he watches. “I will repeat myself no further. Go.”

  My nostrils flare. Is the crew right, Domenic? Do you savor blood?

  “I…” the young man stammers, and I know I have lost. A dark, scathing dread burns my chest. Rory’s voice chokes, and he breaks into sobs.

  The locked gaze between me and Domenic smolders.

  “I cannot do it, sir,” Rory blurts out behind me. “I won’t go up there. Not now.”

  Damn you, Domenic. I turn my back on him and stare at the sea. Behind me, a pair of Spades escorts the sobbing seaman off deck, and Domenic calls out another name in Rory’s place. I feel the weight of several eyes stray to me and ignore them. I want no conversation. Eventually, the men and women return to their business. All but one. When I turn back to the deck, Catsper is watching me.

  That evening at dinner, one of the marine boys passes me the bread box.

  Twee DEEE, the bosun’s pipe calls across the deck. The weather is mockingly bright and cheery after yesterday’s storm and rain. Twee DEEE. “Captain’s Mast! All hands to witness punishment!”

  I am nauseated, have been since last night. The magic in my body increasingly thirsts to call the air that I know will choke me. Holding the wind at bay is harder each hour. Dredging up a stoic face, I join the herd of the ship’s company climbing up to the deck, where Captain’s Mast will be held.

  Catsper’s Spades are already there, mustered on the raised poop deck to ensure order. They stand in two tight black lines, their backs as straight as their muskets. Each boy stares straight ahead and holds his weapon at an angle as perfect as his neighbor’s. The captain, officers, and middies stand beside the marines. Dark blue coats with brushed tails, clean white linens, polished buttons. Domenic’s perfect face is as cold as Ana’s is pale. Captain Rima projects an impressive mix of determination and compassion.

  Below the poop, the quarterdeck is clear except for a metal grating, rigged upright. The rest of us fill each square of the remaining space.

  “Captain’s Mast has begun. Bring forth the accused,” Domenic orders, reading from Lieutenant Kazzik’s list. “Rory, ordinary seaman,” Domenic reads. “Johina, bosun’s mate. Mic, able seaman.”

  The three men step forward, flanked by Spades. Rory’s eyes are lined with the silver of unshed tears.

  I despise punishment, as had Captain Fey. But hundreds of souls cooped for months and years aboard a ship need order for survival, and officers have precious few options for enforcing discipline. On land, the courts may jail a man or demand a fine. A ship can hardly run a prison, and, since men and women have no need for money aboard, a fine will only take food from their families. Unpopular duty answers for minor offenses but much of the ships’ mandatory work is tedious and long. Ship discipline requires sharp reminders, quick to administer and leave in the past. A seaman who refuses an order has to be flogged. But a good officer knows when an order should not be given.

  I glare at Domenic. This need not have happened to Rory, Domenic. Not when there was a choice. He was frightened, not insolent.

  I have to calm down before I feel sick. Sicker. This isn’t my ship. I’ve no word in these proceedings. I am Nile Ash. Fish bait. I am one face of two hundred in the crowd, and the less mind anyone pays me, the better. I can’t help Rory, just as no one can help me. Biting my lip, I copy the half-curious, half-dread-filled posture of the seamen around me and disappear among them, alone on a c
ramped deck.

  Captain Rima examines the trio. Johina stands tall. The black diamond on his head is freshly shaved, as is the crescent on Mic’s. Rory’s blond hair is pulled into a tight tail. “Bosun’s mate Johina?” Captain Rima frowns at his clan mate. “Why is he in this crowd, Commander?”

  “Dereliction of duty, sir,” Domenic answers crisply. “On the second day of this week—”

  Rima puts up his hand, cutting Domenic short. “Ah. Yes. I know now of what you speak. I have already addressed the matter with Mr. Johina and am satisfied that it stemmed from a misunderstanding. No man derelict of duty could hope to achieve the post of bosun’s mate, not on my ship.” The latter is directed to the crew and, I think, to the far off Admiralty. “The Aurora has the highest standards in the League.” He turns to Domenic. “No need to further pursue a matter I have already addressed. Move on, Mr. Dana.”

  Johina touches his forehead in solemn salute. The captain has not surprised him. Or me. Or the crew. Being an Eflian has its privileges on the Aurora. Being an Eflian with the diamond haircut of Captain Rima’s clan carries even more.

  A few steps behind Johina, Rory watches his own feet and quivers. He has no diamond haircut. He is from Felielle.

  My initial nausea still brews, but a buzzing now fills my ears. Even the minor excitement of indignation has made ignoring the wind’s pull more difficult. But I have to ignore it. I’ve not had a single convulsion that is the signature of an air caller’s symptoms, and I’m certain it’s my refusal to give in to the temptation of air calling that’s keeping the disease at bay.

  The pressure behind my eyes threatens to burst my blood vessels. I focus on my breath. In and out. Steady and uniform. Just like the crowd around me. I should stop paying mind to the Mast. I can change nothing here. Unfortunately, after the years of standing with the officers, the self-mandate is more difficult than it sounds.

  On the poop, Domenic moves on to the second man, Mic, who shares Johina’s mess.

  “Mic, rated able, stands accused of dereliction of duty. Three days past, Mic was found asleep while his watch was on duty.”

  Found is the key word in that sentence. Mic sleeps through more work duty than he joins. I watch as the man crumples the hat he holds in his hands. The wind ruffles his shirtsleeves.

  Wind. I want it.

  Rima’s brows pull together. “A serious accusation. What have you to say, Mic?”

  Mic licks his lips. “Aye, sir, I know the accusation is serious. But I never did the crime, sir. I swear on my mother, sir. Mr. Johina was the bosun’s mate on duty, and I am certain he could vouch for me. I think perhaps there was a mistake made, begging your pardon, sir. With Mr. Dana being belowdecks at the time and all.”

  “How about it, Johina?” Rima asks the recently freed mate.

  “Never a moment without doing his duty, sir,” Johina replies. “May the gods strike me dead if I am lying.”

  Captain Rima sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Dana. How came you to learn of this alleged transgression?”

  “It was reported to me by Midshipman Kederic, sir.” Domenic nods to the youngster to speak.

  Seventeen-year-old Kederic raises his chin. “Aye, sir. I found Mic asleep on the gun deck, facedown between two guns. I requested that he rise and return to his duty, but Mic ignored me utterly. I thought perhaps he was ill, sir, and reported the matter to Mr. Dana.” More likely drunk than sick. The hat in Mic’s hands deteriorates to a shapeless wad. He shoots a glance at Johina, but the mate’s gaze is locked on the captain.

  Captain Rima takes his time turning to the middie. “Mr. Kederic, you found a man facedown, belowdecks, in the gloom. How certain are you that you identified him properly?”

  “I’m fair certain, sir,” Kederic replies at once.

  “Mr. Dana is about to have a man flogged on your word, young man,” Rima snaps. “And the best you can give us is ‘fair certain’? You better think hard, Mr. Kederic, as to whether there is any chance, however slight, that you may have been mistaken when you identified a seaman by the back of his head.”

  At seventeen, Kederic is getting ready to stand before a lieutenant’s commissioning board. He swallows, but his shoulders stay square. He will stick to his guns. Good lad.

  Rima rubs his goatee and leans slightly toward the midshipman. “It is difficult for a middie on a Joint Fleet ship, I know. You must prove yourselves to your officers and to the crew. You must lead men who’ve spent years more at sea than you have. Men whose reports may have seen you embarrassed or even punished. It is hard, I know. I’ve also known a midshipman or two who have tried to play out personal grudges during Captain’s Mast. Or else enjoyed the power of seeing men hurt.” The captain squares on Kederic now. “I warn you now. I will have no petty tyrants on this crew. These seamen deserve better. The Aurora deserves better. The League deserves better! Is that understood?”

  Bloody waves and hail.

  Kederic, whose face now turns crimson, touches his hat. “Aye, sir! But—”

  “Let me thus raise the stakes for half-truths,” Rima continues. “I shall take your word, Mr. Kederic, but should I later learn that you were mistaken, your uniform will offer you no protection. I will have you strapped to the grating.”

  Kederic’s face turns from red to pale.

  Rima holds the silence a moment longer. “Now then, is it possible you were mistaken in your report?” he asked kindly.

  “Aye, sir,” Kederic stammers. “It is possible.”

  I stare in stunned silence as Mic steps from the quarterdeck. Around me, the crew gazes on Captain Rima with loving eyes. To the Eflians, he is loyal kin. To the others, he is a savior and champion, the only protection they have from the hated officer who doles out savage discipline. In the land of Domenic’s lash, Rima is hope. Rima smiles compassionately at his admirers. I am here for you, his eyes say. The bloody nepotist is supposed to be here for the Aurora and her mission.

  Stop it, Nile. Stop looking, stop listening, stop thinking. I dig the nails of one hand into the soft webbing between the fingers on the other and focus my attention on the resulting sting. The wind bats at me. My knees buckle as I reject it. If I don’t calm myself, I’ll lose the fight.

  Rory stands alone before the mast now, crying without a sound. He stares pleadingly at Rima, searching for any thread of reprieve as Domenic mercilessly reads the charge. Refusal to follow orders. Refusal to fulfill duties. Cowardice. I try not to listen.

  “Very well, Rory,” Captain Rima’s voice drags me back to the proceedings. Rima’s eyes are sad, as if the matter touches him personally. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

  Rory shakes his head pitifully. “It was only the once, sir. Just that once. It will never happen again.”

  Rima sighs. “I would aid you if I could, Rory, but I fear this is Mr. Dana’s territory.”

  “Seaman Rory. You are guilty of the charges.” Domenic doffs his hat. “Two dozen lashes. Remove your shirt.”

  Rory’s hands shake. I look down at the deck.

  “Nile Ash,” Domenic says suddenly. “Come up to the front row, if you please. I believe you will have a better point of vantage there.”

  I jerk and stare up at Domenic. Is he bloody joking?

  His gaze holds mine. Waiting.

  Understanding dawns on me slowly, a burning that starts in my chest and grows until my body is aflame. This punishment is not just Rory’s, it is also mine. Mine for interfering with Domenic’s command. Fine. “Aye, sir,” I say clearly and step forward into the passage the mob of crewmen opens before me. Two marines tie Rory’s hands to the grating. A bosun’s mate—at least it is not Johina—takes the cat-o’-nine-tails from its bag.

  “Do your duty,” Domenic intones formally, and the Spade drummer boy starts a roll.

  I make myself watch Rory, as Domenic commanded. Blood comes with the third lash. Screams with the fourth. My knees shake. Several sailors glance my way, smirking. Storms and hail. I’ve see
n floggings before. I know how to keep a straight face. Or at least, Princess Nile of Ashing had known. But right now, Rory’s agony fuels my own. Each second I deny the wind is worse than the last. I sway, the pressure in my head unbearable.

  Domenic stares right at me. Ensuring I am learning the meaning of ship’s discipline.

  I clench my fists but stare right back. My heart races as quick as the rolling beat of the drum. It’s not I who needs the lesson, Domenic, my mind yells through clenched teeth. It’s you.

  And then I can’t fight the pressure anymore. I drop to my knees and grab my head with my hands. The magic calls to the wind, and it rushes to me, a sudden gush that ruffles the deck. I choke on the flow, unable to hold the floodgates closed a moment longer. My lungs stretch and burn. I fold into myself. I’m drinking air so quickly, I can’t breathe. The edges of my vision darken. I’m aware of the world a heartbeat longer, and then I crumple. The darkness finally stifles the piercing of Rory’s screams and Domenic’s eyes.

  Chapter 14

  I suck air into my bruised lungs, feel them expand and hungrily gulp down more. My pulse races in terror. Each breath threatens to gag me again. To suffocate. To kill.

  “Nile.”

  I open my eyes. Ana and Domenic are leaning over me. With them, my memory swims into focus. Rory’s flogging. The pounding in my head. My surrender to the unchecked onslaught of air and the quick, agonizing darkness. Storms. For the first time since I was eight, doubt about my place at sea twists my gut.

  “It’s all right,” Ana says, her hazel eyes haunted as she strokes my hair. “I’ll take you below.”

  Domenic says nothing, but he watches my every move from behind that gaze of cobalt blue. His wide, powerful body shields me from the crew. Not in kindness, I don’t think. He’s simply large and, apparently, interested in seeing my reaction up close.

  I’m tempted to give him a vulgar gesture but am smart enough not to.