The door of the cupboard was wrenched open; a bony, one-eyed pirate was looking away over his shoulder, calling to ask how many sheets were wanted for patching. He had reached, unlooking, into the cupboard, and grasped a sheet—and Amielle’s wrist beneath it.
“Sweet Jophiros’ knees!” The man dropped her wrist and Amielle attempted, impossibly, to squeeze herself further back in the cupboard. But the man pulled all the blankets and sheets down, and Amielle after them. She found herself on the floor of the Ladies’ Cabin staring up at the pirate, who was bawling to his mates to see what he had found.
Dragged onto the deck, blinking in the bright, clear sunlight, Amielle saw a shambles on the deck, and the pirates engaged in cleaning up. Nault stood at the helm, his dark hair blowing in the breeze and the necklace of luckstones glinting in the sunlight. Behind him Lydanne looked up from examining a torn sail, and regarded Amielle with dismay.
“Found her in the front cabin, Nault. Been hidin’ there since we took the ship, I reckon.” The one-eyed pirate shoved Amielle forward.
Nault gestured to Lydanne to take the helm and swung down the stairs to examine his prisoner. “A girl.” He might as well have said “a snake” or “a turd” for the distaste in his voice. He turned to look round at the rest of the crew. “Well, this—” he took Amielle’s arm and shook her. “This explains all the foul luck we’ve had since taking the ship, hey, boys?”
The crew—saving only Lydanne at the helm—moved toward Amielle, muttering their agreement with Nault. The most benevolent suggestion the girl heard was that she be turned over to the doxies of Madame Warmfist’s on Isl’Alander: “They’ll have a use for her!” The other men seemed to think that was too kind. “Brought the storm down on us,” a fat, grizzled man said. “Took the wind clear away,” another growled. And, worst of all, “Split open the grog barrel!”
“A woman on board’s a jinx,” Nault said. He tossed his head to get the hair out of his eyes. “Only question is how to deal with her. I say: over the side.”
He took two steps toward the railing; Amielle attempted to resist, but the master was big, certainly bigger than a scrawny twelve-year-old girl. She found herself pressed against the railing, bent backward so she could see the swift flow of the sea below her.
“Nault, stop! She’s just a child!”
Amielle looked back to see Lydanne with her hand on the master’s shoulder, restraining him. Nault regarded her with the expression of one who was not accustomed to be gainsaid.
“Step off, Lyd, or I’ll have your ear,” he said. And tossed his hair again.
“Master, give her to the brothel on Isl’Alander, if you like. But don’t toss her overboard—a thing like that brings its own ill luck. You want to curse this ship?”
“Only curse on this ship is this brat, and over she goes. Take your hand off me or I swear—” Nault turned to face Lydanne; Amielle slid out from his grasp. “Now, damme, see what you’ve done?” The master reeled around to grab Amielle, but Lydanne was still in his way. He swung at her; Lydanne was knocked sideways, her spectacles flying and her hair pulled from the tail in which she had tied it. As Nault turned to grab Amielle again, Lydanne staggered back and stood between them. This time Nault reached out to push Lydanne aside, then stopped. His hand, flat upon her chest, slowly shaped around the swelling there. His expression was all astonishment.
Lydanne, her glasses gone and her hair loose about her face, stared at the master unwavering. She looked, to Amielle, like a warrior queen. The thought woke the romance in the girl’s soul. Now, she thought. Now he knows who she really is, without her spectacles and with hair down, now Nault will see she’s pretty and love her and she’ll save me and—
But the master of the Plover only stood there, staring at the hand which cupped Lydanne’s breast as if he had found a mouse in his boot. Lydanne stood still, her eyes on the play of expression on Nault’s face.
Gorle, the fat seaman, broke the silence. “Gon to be a fight, then, Nault?” He sounded hopeful. The other pirates began a murmur of encouragement. “You and Lyd?”
Nault gave Lydanne’s breast a hard squeeze—Amielle saw her wince of pain—and pushed her aside. “I don’t fight women.”
There was a moment of silence in which the creaking of the ship and the whickering of the breeze in the sails overhead seemed unnaturally loud. Lydanne, on her feet again, straightened her coat and quickly braided her hair in its accustomed queue. One of the pirates muttered “Whuh?”
“Lyd’s not one of us, Pico. Lyd’s another thrice-damned woman.” Nault’s voice oozed disgust. “There’s two jinxes on this ship, and I say we be rid of both of them.”
Amielle, still crouched in the lee of the rail, watched in dismay. This was not at all the way matters were supposed to proceed. Nault, in the face of Lydanne’s bravery and beauty, was supposed to fall in love with her. Don’t you see how splendid she is? Amielle wanted to cry. But none of them saw that except her.
Gorle stepped forward and peered at Lydanne. “Zis true, Lyd? You a woman?”
An odd, small smile lit Lydanne’s face. “I’m the same shipmate I’ve been for half a dozen years, doing my work and fighting beside you all when it was needful. What else matters? Boun—” She looked to the tall, one-eyed pirate. “Wasn’t it me pulled you back onto the side when we were mending sails on the Daisy last year? And Pico, when you lost your blade taking this ship, hadn’t I your back? Who saved your sorry ass then? Breggen, you saved me more than once. D’you regret it now?”
The pirates looked at each other uncertainly.
“I’m no different from any of you. I love the sea—”
“Love.” Nault spat. “Like a woman to talk of love. No wonder the winds died and the bread was weevilly—”
“But it’s you brought the bad luck,” Amielle burst in. She stood by the railing, her fist clenched, outraged. “You, with that vulgar necklace that tempts fortune with other men’s luck! It’s nothing to do with me—or Lydanne! Leave her alone, you bully.”
It was a mistake. The pirates had all but forgotten her, and now she’d drawn their attention again.
Nault stepped along the rail and grabbed Amielle by the wrist, jerking her back toward the pirates. “Bully, am I? You’re one piece of ill-luck I can rid myself of this minute. Over the side you go, brat. But first—” He reached for the ear where Amielle’s own tiny luckstone dangled. She turned her head furiously, seeking to avoid his hand; the master roared his frustration and backhanded her. The world went gray and she sagged against the rail.
“NAULT!” Lydanne’s voice was a roar in Amielle’s ears. “Think shame to strike a child half your size. Are you a bully? If not, you’ll fight me.” She had her sword out, extended in a line toward Nault’s throat. “Fight me, or prove yourself a coward.”
Amielle fell backward when Nault dropped her. He drew his own sword with a sweep that almost deprived Boun, nearby, of his remaining eye, and dropped into an exaggerated crouch. The pirates stepped back hastily, giving Nault and Lydanne room for their business. Amielle, who had read of duels at sea but never seen a sword drawn in anger, found that it was not romantic or even exciting. She could taste her own fear as she watched Lydanne and Nault circle round each other on the broad, creaking boards of the deck. Nault did not love Lydanne: he meant to kill her. And if Lydanne loved Nault, well, she clearly had no intention of being killed herself.
Amielle folded herself back into the shadow of the railing and watched.
Nault lunged at Lydanne with a roar so loud it made Amielle’s heart jump, but Lydanne, unmoved, beat his point aside and riposted. Her blade sliced the fabric of Nault’s sleeve; then there was a flurry of blows and parries, with the clash of steel and the thump of boots and the grunts and gasps of the two of them like music to a dance.
“Give over, Lyd,” Nault gasped.
“Give over and die? Not likely.”
“I’ve the luck.” Nault flashed that beautiful, broad grin. The wreath
of luckstones around his neck glinted in the sunlight, and Amielle was struck with inspiration.
“Unfair!” she cried. “Those stones give the master an advantage! Cry foul!”
“Whot?” Gorle looked around as if he could not remember who was speaking.
Amielle rose from her hiding place in the lee of the rail and said again, “The master has an advantage; so many luckstones together when she’s only the one. If the master doesn’t fear being beaten by a woman, he should fight without the necklace.”
“I fear nothing. Least of all Lyd, here.” Nault reached with one hand to pull the wreath of luckstones over his head; his tawny skin glowed with sweat and his hair stirred in the breeze. With the necklace in one hand and his sword in the other he was a very heroic figure. And knows it, Amielle thought.
Lydanne looked at the master with hopeless admiration—but she had not lowered the point of her sword.
Nault dropped the necklace on top of a barrel, well away from the crew, and turned back to face Lydanne. “Now we finish this,” he said.
They fought. Amielle had no words for what she was seeing, other than that with each thrust and cut she was certain that one of them would die. They fought around the deck, causing the watching pirates to scatter more than once. Lydanne’s blade caught Nault on the shoulder and cut him; a whistling downward slash missed her ear but took a hands’ breadth of Lydanne’s queue. But that was the last advantage Nault gained; Lydanne fought with grim purpose and economy, where Nault grew angrier with each moment. Finally the master made a lunge for Lydanne’s side that put him off balance; she parried the cut, then swept his foot out from under him with a kick, and the master was on his back with her point at his throat.
“Do you give?” Lydanne was panting so hard the words were hard to understand. She repeated them.
He nodded. Lydanne took up his sword and stepped back. She tossed his blade to Gorle as Nault got to his feet.
“Now, I suppose we must figure what’s best to do with our stowaway,” Lydanne said. Or began to. The words were cut off by Nault’s hand across her mouth and a small, wicked looking knife at her throat.
“Word to a woman isn’t any word at all,” he said. “First you, then the chit.”
He pulled Lydanne backward with him toward the railing. The other pirates watched and did nothing. Any notions Amielle had cherished about honor among pirates were entirely gone now. Lydanne would die, and then she would die, and for what?
Amielle crawled unseen in the shadow of the rail until she found what she wanted: Nault’s necklace, the pile of rings, earbobs, and pins strung together on a salt-stiffened thong. For the third time, Amielle got to her feet and called attention to herself once more.
“Let her go, Nault.” The girl held his necklace out over the railing with nothing but the green depths of the sea below. “Let her go, or I’ll—” She shook her hand and the stones clicked and clinked together. Her voice was shaking too.
Nault released Lydanne and launched himself, not at Amielle, but at the necklace itself, in a movement fluid with rage. Amielle stepped back, but not fast enough; Nault hit the rail with his hip, grabbing with both hands at the necklace, For a moment that seemed very long, he stretched out over the rail, his weight pulling on the thong. Lydanne reached for Nault to pull him back, but it was too late; he fell over the rail, the wreath of stones in his hands, and disappeared into the sea. Only one stone—the emerald earbob by which Amielle had been holding the necklace—remained clutched in her hand.
~o0o~
There was no question that, with Nault gone, Gorle ha Deman was the most senior seaman on the ship. The pirates, including Lydanne, looked to him for what they should do next.
“Cap’n said head for Isl’Alander, zo I reckon that’s what we do,” Gorle said at last. Amielle sat binding Lydanne’s wounds inexpertly, and Lydanne, wincing and drinking ale, had returned her spectacles to her nose and retied her newly-shortened hair. “Z’ for you, Lyd, I dunno. Ef only you wan’t a woman—” He sounded as if it had simply been a bad choice on her part. “I dunno what the Cap’n’ll say about Nault. It’s likely he’ll blame you, though, and I’d not want to be in your shoes.”
Lydanne nodded. “I had thought as much myself. Gorle, if I take the skiff and bring the girl home—will you give me my share?”
The pirate considered. He was not a man, Amielle thought, much given to being in charge.
“I spose you earnt it, din’t you? Even with being a woman. Go below and we’ll count out what’s yours. Oy, Breggen: provision the skiff and get her ready to launch. It’ll be a week or more before you reach Meviel.”
~o0o~
They left the Plover without ceremony or farewells. If Lydanne regretted leaving the ship she did not say so. Instead, settled into the skiff, she took bearings with a magnet floated in a shell full of water, and began to row. For as long as it took for the skiff to lose sight of the Plover Amielle said nothing. But finally she could stand it no longer.
“Lydanne?”
“Hmm.”
“I am sorry about Nault.”
The pirate woman rowed on. “I am too, girl.”
“I didn’t mean for him—I just didn’t want him to kill you.”
“I know. Thank you.”
That didn’t seem enough to Amielle. She thought for a few minutes to the accompanying sound of the oars dipping slow and smooth.
At last, “I don’t think he could have—I don’t think he would have loved you.”
Lydanne shook her head. “You’re right there.” One corner of her mouth quirked up. “But I could have loved him, see.”
Amielle thought about that, but it made no sense to her. The pirate woman said nothing, but Amielle felt there was a good deal that could be said, as she often did when dealing with adults. She had an idea.
“Lydanne, would you like this? To remember—” Amielle offered the emerald earbob in the palm of her hand.
Lydanne stopped rowing and looked at the stone. “No, sweet. I’ll remember well enough on my own. You keep it. Spoils of war.” She fixed her gaze on the sea before them, the featureless horizon, and picked the oars up again.
Writ of Exception
“Don’t be stupid, girl. Marriage is for the consolidation of wealth and property. Romance is for diversion. And love—” Deira do Morbegon’s tone was derisive. “Love is for poets.”
“Mamma, I know better than to speak of love and marriage in the same breath. But this—even if I liked it, what good would it bring? There can be no children—”
“When our families are joined, one of you will get a child from somewhere.” Madam do Morbegon shrugged as if children might be bought at the Actenar bazaar. “You may take lovers now and then. Discreetly.” For a moment Madam do Morbegon appeared to soften; she sat on the unmade bed beside her daughter and her daughter’s hand in her own. “If your brother had not died he would have married her. Evida do Caudon and I have schemed since we were girls to unite our families, even before she married the Cindon. Your father meets with the bishop today to get a Writ of Exception; such marriages are uncommon, I grant you, but—I was at court when Prince Ebuen wed Prince Beqis and Meviel annexed his principality. When the property is important…” Madam do Morbegon reflected for a moment upon the importance of the Caudon holdings. “Ellais, she inherits all. You will be Cindiese one day—or at least the consort of a Cindiese. It is an excellent match except in one little way.” She rose from the bed, pulling her hand from her daughter’s. “Now get dressed. You will wish to look well for your betrothed.”
It was a command. Madame do Morbegon left before her daughter could protest anew. Ellais heard voices, low, outside her door, and then Lilsa, her body-maid, entered the room, almost invisible behind a pile of dresses.
“Madame says we’re to be turned out nice for visiting,” she said around the fabric. “I thought the green, or p’raps—” Lilsa made the error of meeting her charge’s eyes. “Is he very bad, sweet?”
“You don’t know?”
“How could I? Madame set her maid to watch at the door while she talked to you.” Lilsa sniffed aggrievedly. “But she did say betrothed. Who is it? Is he old? Rich at least?”
“Rich,” Ellais agreed. “And young. But not he. They’ve betrothed me to Taigna me Caudon.”
“Taigna—”
Ellais nodded. “Papa is meeting with the bishop about a Writ of Exception for the Marriage. Mamma and the Cindiese have scheduled the wedding in six weeks—just long enough to prepare two sets of bride clothes. The Cindon and Papa are delighted with the settlements. My wishes count for nothing, and Taigna—God alone knows what she makes of this. Mamma has made it plain I have no chance of refusing. Married I will be, to a girl I’m on no better than speaking terms with.”
“P’raps the bishop will say no to the Writ,” Lilsa suggested dubiously.
“I wish I thought so. But it’s all money and property; there’ll be talk, but Papa is wild to have the Caudon properties in the family, and the Cindon is apparently just as interested in our money; between the two of them, they’ll bend the bishop to their will, I’m sure of it.”
“Well. What can’t be cured must be endured.” Lilsa began to spread the dresses she held upon the bed in a colorful fan. “Madame said you was to be ready to make a call within the hour. I think the green, don’t you?”
~o0o~
House Caudon stood three streets from the Great Hub and the House of Speakers in the Vocarle district. The white stone edifice rose four highly ornamented stories; to Ellais’s eye it resembled a towering wedding sweet. She, with her mother one step behind her (to block all escape, Ellais thought) was shown to a drawing room by an elderly manservant, and within a minute the Cindiese do Caudon appeared in the doorway, one hand firmly clasped round the wrist of her daughter Taigna. From the look of things, Ellais reflected, Taigna was no better pleased than she was at the engagement.
Luckstones Page 2
