Maelstrom

by Jill Williamson

  Inolah’s voice carried over the woman’s panic. “My brother has seen me covered in mud, Biinah. I am in a much better state today. Vallah, greet your uncle and let him in. I do hope he brought his wife.”

  Vallah came to the door and curtsied. “Good midday, uncle, aunt. Come to see the baby?”

  “That we have, Vallah,” Wilek said. “Can you take us to her?”

  The girl whisked them inside the tiny cabin to a framed bed, where Inolah was sitting up, blankets tucked around her. Wilek’s gaze locked on to the small bundle in her arms.

  “Meet my daughter Tinyah, for though she did not feel tiny, you can see that she is.”

  The small, dark face was squished like one of Mother’s dogs. Her eyes were open, alert, and looking around the room, fixed on nothing, despite the fact that Zeroah waved her finger before them.

  “She is beautiful,” Zeroah said.

  “Just like her sister.” Inolah smiled at Vallah. “I confess I am relieved she is female. Ulrik will not be so eager to make use of a girl.”

  Pain flashed across Inolah’s face as she spoke of her son. Wilek wished he could fix all that was broken in her life. “Have you thought of marrying again?” he asked her.

  Inolah stared at him silently.

  “Of course I will provide for you. Do not doubt that,” Wilek said. “I only wondered if you might be happier . . .” He cursed himself for bringing it up.

  “I am not a project to be fixed, like the Duke of Canden, Wil.” His sister lifted the baby to Zeroah, who took the girl into her arms with as much eagerness as if it had been her own.

  “I should not have asked that,” he said.

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” Inolah said. “Tell me you seized Oli’s bottles of evenroot juice, though. I am worried about him.”

  Wilek grabbed his head. “I forgot!” With interviewing the traitors, then the storm . . . “Have you seen him?”

  “Not since I went into labor at Hrettah’s ageday party. You must check on him, brother.”

  “I will do so the moment we leave you.” Curse his overworked mind! How could he have forgotten so much evenroot juice? Was he a complete fool? He prayed that Oli had refrained from taking more and that no one else had discovered it.

  They stayed only long enough for each to take a turn holding the newborn, then bade mother, sister, and infant farewell. Wilek didn’t mean to hurry his wife back through the corridors to their cabin, but concern for Oli had very much distracted him. He thought of nothing but Oli until Zeroah took hold of his hand and squeezed.

  “Did you like your niece Tinyah, Wilek?”

  He smiled upon her. “Very much.”

  “I am glad, for I shall soon give you a babe of your own.”

  Wilek blinked, wondering what she meant. Was this a promise for the future? Or was she trying to tell him something? “Are you with child, lady?”

  A shy smile. A nod.

  Wilek whooped, grabbed his wife around the waist, and lifted her. A clunk brought forth a cry, and Zeroah clapped a hand to her head. “Oh! Forgive me, Zeroah.” Wilek set her down again. “I forget how low these deck heads are.”

  But she was smiling wider than ever before. “I am not hurt.”

  He hugged her close and kissed the top of her head. On a day filled with death, missing ships, and trials of treason, news of this one new life filled him with a fresh purpose to forge on.

  “You are pleased, then?” Zeroah asked.

  “My dear, your gift has scattered a hundred burdens from my mind. I am overjoyed!”

  Zeroah beamed.

  Janek’s shipping took place that midday on the stern deck. Only royals and selected nobles had been invited, but commoners crowded the stairs and a few had climbed into the rigging to watch the sâr’s last rites.

  Two reamskiffs had been decorated for the commoner shipping earlier that day. With the benches removed, they had managed to fit sixteen bodies on each. Janek’s death boat had been decorated with drapes of white and blue linen, curled ribbon, and an Armanian flag mounted on a pole at the bow. Dozens of silk flowers in a variety of styles had been stitched in bunches on the linen drape and, to Wilek’s surprise, looked as nice as real ones. Janek had been dressed in his best, then wrapped in white linen and cloth of gold. His beloved sandvine had been tucked beside his body, along with a chest of gold coins, several sculptures of Janek’s five gods, goblets, and a myriad of jewels. These were his grave offerings so that he would not appear before Athos empty-handed.

  It all seemed a waste to Wilek, who no longer believed the dead would find Athos waiting. Where did these death boats end up, anyway? On the bottom of the sea? Looted by pirates? Drifting forever? He couldn’t recall what the Book of Arman had to say on the subject. He would have to ask Miss Onika sometime.

  Father Mathal conducted the ceremony, resplendent in white robes that reminded Wilek of Pontiff Rogedoth, the pretender.

  “We gather here to pay tribute to the life of His Royal Highness, Janek-Sâr Hadar, the Second Arm, the Amiable. The death of a man is the order of things. It comes to all as surely as night follows day. Our ancient forefathers gave us life through the people tree, so we acknowledge the tree as a symbol. Each man sprouts as a bud, grows into a leaf that appears for a season, flourishes in the glory of summer, then dies with the coming of fall.

  “For Sâr Janek, the journey on earth has ended and another begun, but for us, there is loss, sorrow, and pain. Iamos, deliver us from grief and despair. Give us the strength to accept what is past, peace to appreciate what is present, and good fortune as we look toward what is to come.”

  Wilek studied the faces of those in attendance. None appeared to have good fortune by standards of the past. Today good fortune meant having one’s health, food, and water. What separated these men and women from the so-called commoners on the main deck? Birth? Blood? It seemed a fine line.

  “Nivanreh, god of travel,” Father Mathal went on, “we stand at the doorway between earth and Shamayim and pray for Sâr Janek’s journey. Cethra, keep him safe as he sails. Be his eyes and protect him from any evil that comes his way. Mikreh, provide good fortune. Thalassa, give him calm waters. Iamos, heal his wounds. Avenis, restore his beauty. We ask all this for our sâr so that when he stands before Athos’s bench, he will be judged fairly.”

  No mention of the evils Janek had done in his life. How would those be measured?

  “Sâr Janek Hadar, the Second Arm, the Amiable, we thank the gods for your life, for being part of our lives, and we ask that they would bless your journey to Shamayim now that our time together has ended. May Yobatha grant you peace and joy in the hereafter. We will not forget you. Go well.”

  Two King’s Guards worked the crank at the boat fall, and Wilek watched over the rail as his brother’s death boat lowered to the water. The sea was calm today, after causing so much trouble and perhaps taking several ships into her depths. Wilek wondered where Janek was. If he could see them now. If he had met Arman, and if so, been pardoned or chained in the Lowerworld.

  Wilek had never been close to Janek, but watching his death boat drift away, one thing became very clear. Death came to all. It could not be escaped. Wilek had lived most of his life in fear of his father—of death. Yet he had faced Barthos and lived; he had survived the Five Woes and seventy-three days at sea since Bakurah Island. He would no longer be afraid. He would live each day fully so that when his turn came to be shipped away, he would have no regrets.

  A cry from the rigging caught his attention. A sailor pointed into the distance, where something bobbed on the water. Wilek left his place at the rail, found Captain Bussie, and urged him to investigate. A half hour later he stood again at the railing, looking down on the wreckage of an Armanian ship.

  This day would not end. Wilek sat at his desk, eager for the first sleep bells to ring so he could visit Zeroah. He’d barely found a free moment, whether it was investigating the wreckage or presiding over a search of Oli Agoros’s cabin and
watching the duke dump his evenroot contents into the sea.

  Now Admiral Livina had come to deliver his account of the missing ships. There were twenty-two listed. Wilek sat at his desk, a square of parchment anchored on the wood before him. His eyes followed the strokes of the admiral’s slanting penmanship, dazed by how the simple shape of a letter could convey such meaning. Affrany, Colla, Dogstar, Eremon, Fairwing, Gallayah, Intrepid, Luvin, Nightflyer . . . He read the names slowly, letting it sink in, asking Arman to protect the souls on each vessel. Halfway down he realized that the admiral had alphabetized the list. Such efficiency in a tragic situation felt wrong somehow. He continued reading the ship names until one caught his breath.

  “Rafayah,” Wilek said aloud.

  Armania’s vice flagship. The ship that Miss Mielle, Trevn, Miss Shemme, and Kal had been on. The ship Miss Mielle had remained on to prepare Miss Shemme’s body for shipping.

  Miss Mielle was lost.

  How could this be? The Rafayah had sailed right behind the Seffynaw since the day they’d left Everton. How could it have gotten off course?

  Arman, why?

  Anger welled inside him. Anger at Arman. The Book of Arman said that He Who Made The World was good to those who followed him. “Well?” Wilek said aloud, then spouted off several verses Zeroah had encouraged him to commit to memory:

  “Arman delivers his people through the power of his Hand.”

  “Arman is faithful and will keep his people from evil.”

  “A man who keeps Arman’s decrees shall live.”

  “The beloved of Arman shall dwell in safety.”

  “Arman will guard the lives of his faithful servants.”

  He slapped the desktop, furious. Hadn’t he obeyed Arman’s prophetess and encouraged his people to flee their homeland, to leave everything behind and trust Arman to lead them to land? He recalled the words Miss Onika had prophesied to Kal.

  “The remnant will set sail and begin anew. In northern lands they will give glory to Arman. In the lands beyond the sea they will praise his name.”

  The remnant had sailed north. So where was the land? “What did I do wrong?” Wilek asked. “Why would you punish me?”

  Arman’s ways are beyond understanding.

  Zeroah’s favorite verse came softly. Wilek could not recall the reference, but he pondered the words for a very long time.

  In the end the words did placate him some. He could not wallow in despair over the lost ships nor could he rail in anger. His father was bedridden aboard the Kaloday. Janek was dead. And Wilek would meet with the Wisean Council in a few hours to combat a potential mutiny. He must remain strong. What was left of the fleet looked to him. He must lead well, with confidence and strength.

  He would have to tell Miss Amala and Zeroah.

  Worse, he would have to tell Trevn. Poor Trevn, his hand maimed, lying in a drugged stupor in his cabin. Wilek wondered if, in his sleep, his brother had felt his soul-bound bride’s absence, and if he would wake, thinking it the worst of dreams, only to discover it to be all too real.

  Amala

  Amala stood with Sârah Hrettah on the main deck, just outside the makeshift ring. They had been watching a swordplay competition between several nobles and guards. The event had been Rosârah Brelenah’s idea, intended to lift spirits after so many last rites shippings that morning.

  It hadn’t.

  Who could forget the sight of thirty-two wrapped bodies crammed onto reamskiffs like sausages in a pan? And Sâr Janek—beautiful, agreeable, loveable Sâr Janek—killed by Amala’s own guardian! Her eyes teared up just thinking of the injustice and how everyone blamed her.

  Life had never been so hopeless, so grim. She desperately wanted to find someone who understood. Someone who didn’t care about rules or rank or what anyone thought, the way Sâr Trevn loved her sister. He had married her in secret! So said Sârah Hrettah.

  But now Mielle was gone too.

  One potential option soothed Amala’s despair. Agmado Harton. A week ago Ulmer had introduced them at a practice match on the main deck. Master Harton had won today’s swordplay competition easily. He was handsome, spoke kindly to her, and the fact that he had been demoted for disobeying Sâr Wilek proved his independent spirit.

  She watched him from across the ring as he spoke with several guards. “Walk with me, Hrettah?” Amala suggested. “I’ve been standing still too long.”

  Hrettah readily agreed, and Amala set off toward where Master Harton stood, intent on congratulating him for winning the match.

  “I had no idea how talented Master Harton is with a sword,” she said to the sârah.

  “He’d have to be to have been Wilek’s High Shield,” Hrettah said. “I heard the maids say Lady Lilou is in love with him.”

  “I heard that too!” Amala said. “She was arrested, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, my brother arrested several on suspicion of treason.”

  Good. Amala did not think she could compete with a woman as glorious as Lilou Caridod. She frowned, feeling altogether drab and hopeless in her black gown. “I hate wearing black.”

  “Wearing black to mourn is meant to be an outward display of one’s inner feelings,” Hrettah said. “I don’t much like it either. It reminds me constantly that my mother is gone. But it also reminds others that I am grieving, and people have been very kind. Be thankful we are Armanite and only need wear it for five months. Sarikarians wear black for a full year when they mourn.”

  But Amala was not mourning. She was angry. Angry at Kal for killing Sâr Janek, angry at Sâr Wilek for ordering Kal’s arrest, angry at Kal for running away like a coward, angry at everyone on board the ship for blaming her for Sâr Janek’s death. Angry at Mielle, first for marrying Sâr Trevn without inviting her to witness, then for getting lost on the Rafayah! What color should one wear to display anger? Red? Amala would do it, if she owned a red gown. She could just imagine the gossip that would fly about the ship at that breech of etiquette.

  “But there is no proof that the Rafayah sank,” Amala said. “I am sure it has simply lost its way.”

  “I hope you are right,” Hrettah said.

  Of course she was right. Sâr Wilek could fix things if he wanted to. He could send a smaller ship to find the Rafayah. He could pronounce Sâr Trevn and Mielle’s marriage legal. But he didn’t care. And if he didn’t care about his own brother . . . Amala did not like that as her warden he now held her future in his hands.

  By the time Amala and Hrettah neared Master Harton, he was speaking privately with Kamran DanSâr.

  “The cook must have given it to someone,” she heard Kamran say. “But none of the guards have been able to find it.”

  “I would give anything to find it,” Harton said.

  Amala took Hrettah’s arm and stepped up to the men. “Find what?” she asked.

  The men stared at each other as if they’d been caught telling secrets. Oh, how vexing that they refused to answer.

  “It’s a bottle of evenroot, isn’t it?” Hrettah asked. “I heard Rosârah Brelenah speaking to Wilek about it.”

  “The cook has given it to someone,” Master Harton said, “but she won’t say who.”

  “Cook Hara?” Amala asked.

  “She was arrested with the rebels,” Hrettah said.

  “This is nothing you ladies should worry yourselves with,” Kamran said.

  But Amala wasn’t worried. She believed she knew exactly what they were talking about! Enetta and Hara were old friends. A few weeks ago Amala had overheard the cook give Enetta something for safekeeping. Curious, she’d snooped into Enetta’s room and saw that it had been a little vial of white powder. Unimpressed, she’d thought nothing more about it until now. “You’re certain it was a bottle? Might it have been something smaller?”

  Kamran narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  She didn’t want to say. Not if she could tell Master Harton later in private. He might be rewarded for finding the evenroot, and Amala di
d not want Kamran taking that away. “I thought evenroot was kept in vials.”

  “It’s kept in both,” Kamran said.

  “Congratulations on winning the match, Master Harton,” Amala said, quickly changing the subject, and Hrettah added her compliments as well.

  Many more came to offer Master Harton their praise on his heroic win. Kamran excused himself, but Amala and Hrettah remained on the deck until the crowd thinned. When finally Rosârah Brelenah said they must return to their cabin, Amala made sure to fall behind with the guards.

  “Master Harton,” she said. “Might I have a private word?”

  “I suppose so.”

  The other guards went on ahead, and Master Harton followed at Amala’s side.

  Amala chose her words carefully, wanting to prove that she was a woman worth knowing better. “What you said about Cook Hara. I think I might know where the missing evenroot is, though it is a vial, not a bottle. Could that be possible?”

  Harton’s eyes grew eager. “Yes, where is it?”

  She swallowed, hesitant to mention the full truth and be discovered as a snitch. “I don’t know if I should say.”

  He took hold of her arm and pulled her close. He smelled of stale sweat, leather, and metal. “Miss Amala, please. This is very important.”

  His touch thrilled her yet warred with the fear that she might get caught. “I think I can get it for you. Would that help? Then I wouldn’t have to say where I found it.”

  “That would be perfect. How soon can you get it?”

  If she pretended to be ill at dinnertime, she would have the cabin to herself and could search Enetta’s room. “Tonight. I think.”

  He squeezed her arm and his eyebrows sank. “Do your best, Miss Amala. And do not be afraid. I will be waiting right outside your door.”

  Hinck

  Hinck jolted out from his slumber. He sat up, sleepily blinking and wondering what had awakened him when something fell down from the peephole above. Lightweight, the object bounced off his shoulder and landed in the squashed hay that lined the cell’s floor. Hinck squinted, unable to see much at all, and felt the floor for the mystery item. His fingers found a scroll of parchment. He picked it up, stood, and looked out the peephole. The corridor was empty and dark but for the distant flicker and sway of a hanging lantern. Hinck unrolled the scroll and held it to the light, straining to read the messy handwriting.