None at the table raised a dissenting opinion. After a suitable pause, Master Tomlyn raised his hand. “One other known fact that does not quite fit with the rest, Majesty, is the association of the shipwright Kloetesh Ghelfan with the seamage. He is reportedly working exclusively for Mistress Flaxal, and has even set up a shipyard at Plume Isle.”
“Count Norris’ report confirms that he has indeed built a very impressive shipyard there, Master Tomlyn,” the emperor said. “Why does this not fit with the rest of our findings?”
“Because, Majesty, Master Ghelfan does not design warships.”
“Cynthia Flaxal is quite wealthy, Master Tomlyn. It’s confirmed that she richly rewarded those who aided in the pirate Bloodwind’s defeat. Perhaps she made him an offer…” The emperor’s reasoning trailed off as Tomlyn began slowly shaking his head. “Are you suggesting that Ghelfan could not be induced to produce a warship, even for a king’s ransom?”
“I am, Majesty.” The man’s eyes smiled, though his mouth remained stern. “I know him well. He was my mentor, Majesty. He would not create a vessel of war. It is one of his steadfast tenants.”
“Well!” The emperor sat back in his chair and tugged at his beard, his face a mask of consternation. “Well indeed! We know not what to make of this, other than that it lends credence to the Flaxal woman’s claim that she neither needs nor wants her own navy. It does not change the necessity of sending another envoy. The questions are who to send, and how to approach her.”
Several at the table began to speak at once, Count Norris among them, but the emperor raised his hand and everyone fell silent.
“Before We take suggestions, there is one more subject.” The emperor lifted a piece of fine parchment and squinted at the elegant script upon it. “The merfolk.”
They were all taken aback, some snorting in derision, others emitting a bark of laughter. Admiral Joslan was the first to speak.
“If I may, Majesty, the mer are dangerous in numbers, utterly unpredictable, vicious and, in my opinion, a menace to shipping.” Several around the table nodded in agreement, the count included. He truly didn’t know what kind of menace the merfolk constituted, aside from the warnings of Lady Camilla, but he wasn’t about to discount another potential threat that might convince the emperor of the seriousness of the situation. “If it were within my power to eradicate the sea of them with a wave of my hand, I would do so without pause or compunction. Why does Your Majesty ask?”
“Because, Admiral, one of the letters that We received from Mistress Flaxal outlined in great detail her relations with the mer, and their displeasure with our sending a warship to Plume Isle.”
“Their displeasure?” Commodore Twig said with a snort of disgust. “Why should your Majesty’s Imperial Navy give a good god’s damn about the pleasure of the mer?”
“Because, Commodore, as the admiral stated, they are dangerous.” The emperor scowled at the man. “Mistress Flaxal has, using her abilities as a seamage, forged a potential alliance with the mer. We can view this as a threat, a warning, or a boon. She is either marshaling her forces, informing Us of a potential danger, or forging relations with a formerly hostile nation on Our behalf. However We view it, We must decide how to act upon it. She suggests further that sending an emissary to the mer themselves would be wise, to…let’s see…‘preclude any unfortunate response they might levy for past transgressions or trespasses into their territory.’”
“Their territory?” the commodore blurted. “And what exactly is their territory? The whole bloody sea?”
“Restrain your ire, Commodore, this instant!” Emperor Tynean snapped, slapping the table top with an open palm. The room stilled to a deathly calm. “Such outbursts are not productive, Commodore Twig. We need to know what the best response to this should be.”
“I regret, Majesty,” Norris interjected, “that I did not include this in my report, but I thought it unimportant at the time. Mistress Flaxal’s representative asked me to compliment the captain of the Fire Drake on his prudence in anchoring outside the reef and damaging no coral. When I asked why, she said that damaging coral would anger the mer. I asked why one should be concerned with the mer, and she said, and I think these were her exact words, ‘When a thousand of them swarm over the side of your ship in the middle of the night and seek retribution for the damage to their home, you will care.’”
Silence weighed heavily on the group for several breaths. Finally, the emperor stirred.
“Very well, lady and gentlemen. We resolve that an emissary must be sent to the seamage. We also would ask you, Count Norris, to be that emissary, since you know most about the situation at Plume Isle and those involved.”
“I would be honored to serve in that capacity, your Majesty,” Norris said, nodding in acquiescence.
“Very good.” The emperor rose from his seat. Everyone stood, their attention focused, ready for their sovereign’s judgment. “Commodore Twig, you will ready Our flagship Clairissa for action with all alacrity.”
“The Clairissa, Majesty?” Twig’s face blanched white.
“Yes. We feel it is time to send Mistress Flaxal a clear message. The Clairissa is Our icon, Our flag. Also, she is a significant force, if force becomes necessary. You will take command of the expedition, Commodore. The Fire Drake and the supply ship Lady Gwen will accompany you. The support craft will anchor near shore, but shall not damage coral in doing so. The Clairissa will maintain station no more than one mile offshore, and shall stay in signal contact with the Fire Drake at all times. A full marine contingent will be housed aboard the Clairissa, but kept out of sight and in reserve in case it is needed.”
“Yes, Majesty!” the commodore said with a bow.
Norris suppressed a smile of satisfaction. The Clairissa was indeed a significant force; she had a crew of eight hundred fighting sailors, and could berth an additional four hundred marines. She mouted one hundred fifty ballistae and twenty-four catapults, including two siege-caliber weapons. Let us see, Mistress Flaxal, he thought, if you find her superfluous.
“Count Norris, you will act as diplomatic envoy to Mistress Flaxal. You will also act as diplomatic envoy to the merfolk, if a meeting can be arranged by Mistress Flaxal that is deemed by you to be safe and reasonable. Master Upton will supply you with aides.”
Norris stiffened. He knew the man’s name even if he had never met him. Upton was the emperor’s Minister of Security, but among the court he was known as the Royal Spymaster. “Yes, Majesty!” the count said with a deep bow.
“Our wish,” the emperor continued, fixing the count with a level stare, “is that an amicable agreement be reached, not only with Mistress Flaxal, but with all parties. Is that clear, Count Norris?”
“Crystal clear, Majesty.” He bowed again, hiding a grimace; the emperor’s words ensured that his task would be more difficult than if he were left to his own devices. But he could work around that.
“Good. We would ask Mistress Flaxal to accommodate the Fire Drake as a permanently assigned Imperial presence at Plume Isle, and We would begin negotiations for the purchase of plans for the two- and three-masted schooners that she has in production, as well as an assurance that the prototype vessel be made available for our naval architects’ inspection.”
“And if she is not so inclined, Majesty?” Norris asked.
“We expect you to exert all of your diplomatic expertise to achieve an agreement, Count. If she remains aloof, remind her that no documentation of her ownership of Plume Isle has been filed with the royal archivist, and that the Empire of Tsing will leave a garrison on whichever island We wish, with or without her acquiescence. We prefer a garrison of a single ship with a small contingent of marines on board, but if more is deemed necessary, We are prepared to anchor additional warships within the harbor and house a battalion of marines on the island itself. We do not wish a confrontation, but We also will not allow her to martial forces which may be used to blockade the Shattered Isles.” He nodded to Admiral J
oslan. “Military and trade vessels must be allowed to pass this strategic area without molestation from her, her ships, or her allies. Is this clear?”
“Yes, Majesty!” the entire group said in unison.
“Good. Please see to your orders and keep Us appraised.”
The emperor left the room, his secretary and the royal bodyguard in tow, and all present began to collect their papers and go their separate ways. As he took his leave, Emil Norris could not help but feel that Master Upton’s eyes were slowly burning a hole into his back.
≈
“This is not good,” Camilla said, sipping port and staring out over the placid tropical evening. “Not good at all.”
“I must agree, Mistress,” Ghelfan said, his ageless features showing wrinkles of worry rather than years.
“I can’t argue. But at the moment, other than sending another letter, there’s not a lot I can do about it. I don’t know where the rumors started, but someone’s got an axe to grind.” Cynthia reclined in her papasan chair and chewed a fingernail. “An army of cannibals and mer, and an armada of schooners armed for war? I can’t believe anyone would even think it.”
“You don’t suppose the good Count Norris started this, do you?” Cammy asked, her tone suspicious. “I mean, he seemed no more than the emperor’s lackey, but what if he has a personal grudge?”
“You mentioned that his family was lost in the islands, but he can’t blame me for that!” She looked to her two friends, but there was little solace in their faces. “Can he?”
“Regardless, I think we should plan for the worst,” Ghelfan said with a frown.
“Define ‘worst’ for me, Kloetesh,” Camilla said.
“A fleet of warships anchored in Scimitar Bay. An occupying force. A permanent garrison. Prison or worse for us. Do you want me to continue?”
“Prison? But we’ve broken no imperial laws! The worst thing we’ve done is make ourselves some money! Since when is that illegal?” Camilla was becoming angrier with every passing minute, Cynthia could see, but she was as powerless to stop Camilla’s rising temper as she was against the storm of baseless rumors flooding the streets of Tsing.
“Well, I can certainly send more letters, and I will, but at this point it is a simple case of my word against the emperor’s own emissary. There’s little doubt in my mind who he’ll believe.”
“You could suggest that Norris is lying,” Camilla suggested.
“I could, but once again, that might do more harm than good.”
“The truth, Mistress, is your greatest weapon,” Ghelfan said. “Invite them here. Insist that they examine every aspect of your business. Show them that these rumors are baseless.”
“I think you’re right. The more I argue, the more I look like I’m lying, but they can’t argue with their own findings once they come and see that I’m not planning a coup or blockade or whatever.” She forced herself up out of her chair with the aid of her two friends, grimacing at the pain in her back. “But I agree with you on one thing: we should prepare for the worst.” Before she turned to go back inside to draft her letters, she lingered to enjoy one more long look at the peaceful evening. Memories of blood staining the water and of fire sweeping across Scimitar Bay sprang unbidden into Cynthia’s mind. All she could do was pray to Odea: Please, don’t let it happen again…
Chapter Sixteen
Hearts and Desires
Cynthia rose from the sea in a column of water and stepped onto the deck of Orin’s Pride. Willing the water away, her bare feet were dry as they touched the wood, the soft trade winds fluttering her sea-blue sarong.
Startled exclamations and oaths issued from the crew who did not know her, but none from the captain. Feldrin Brelak just stood there smiling that incongruously boyish smile, his huge arms folded over his barrel chest. Cynthia remembered those arms around her, the mountainous solidity of his chest, and her knees suddenly felt unsteady. His dark eyes, glinting with pleasure, were fully occupied with taking in the sight of her, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. Mouse provided a welcome distraction by swooping through the rigging with a peal of impossibly high-pitched laughter and a blur of gossamer-crystal wings. He settled on Feldrin’s shoulder, tweaked his ear, and swooped off to torment the crew.
Cynthia tore her eyes away from Feldrin and swept a glance over the deck once before returning to the only thing aboard for which she truly cared. The glance confirmed that Feldrin had, as the rumors suggested, outfitted Orin’s Pride as a privateer. Aside from the weaponry — ballistae mounted fore and aft on the deck, and a catapult on the foredeck — she could see the scars, new wood and paint that told tales of battle. It saddened her that her creation, a ship that bore her own likeness as a figurehead, had been put to such a use, though she knew there was no malice in Feldrin’s intent. Making war against pirates was simply what he did best.
Her eyes found him again and she could see the same scars of war, though he wore them better than his ship did.
“Quite an entrance, lass.” His boyish smile widened to a grin as he stepped forward, but he stopped short of his customary embrace. His eyes left her face for the first time, taking in her expansive belly, and his smile faltered. “Yer, uh…”
“As big as a house, I know,” she finished for him, enjoying his reaction. “Your fault, you know.”
“Oh, aye. I’ll take the blame, lass.” He took one more step forward, and reached out.
Cynthia knew not what possessed everyone within five feet of a pregnant woman to feel the sudden urge to touch her bulging abdomen, but she’d had about all of it she could take. She took an involuntary step back. The flash of pain on Feldrin’s face told her that her reaction had been the absolute worst thing she could have done.
“I’m sorry, Feldrin, I didn’t mean to — ”
“No, I’m sorry, lass,” he said, trying to smile again, but failing. He stepped forward once again, cautious, tentative, and reached out to take her hand in his, not, as she had expected, to touch her swollen stomach. “I’m sorry I ever left ya here alone.” He bent and brought her hand to his lips, pressing it with a feverish intensity.
“Yer pardon, Captain,” Horace cut in with an apologetic nod, “but the wind’s died completely and we can’t make the mooring.”
Feldrin stiffened, his swarthy features darkening as his eyes left her for the first time. “Well, drop the bloody anchor before we drift into somethin’, Horace! Do I have to do bloody everything aboard this bloody ship?”
“No, sir! I — ”
“I’m sorry, Feldrin,” Cynthia broke in, smiling sheepishly at them both. “I did that. I was going to bring you into the pier, unless you want to sail her in.” Her hand was still firmly clasped in his, and she gave it a squeeze. “She’s your ship, Captain.”
“Furl all sails, Horace, and put fenders on her starboard side. Mistress Flaxal will be docking the ship.” He smiled down at her, squeezing her hand like he would never let it go.
≈
“That’s the seamage’s husband?” Edan asked in a whisper as the couple strolled up the pier toward the keep, arms entwined. Flicker peeked out from behind his shoulder. She was nervous on the pier with water surrounding them, but equally curious about the new ship and her captain, and ever intrigued by the seasprite that currently was riding on the captain’s cliff-like shoulder.
“Aye, that’s him,” Tim said, grinning. “He’s somethin’, ain’t he? Word is he’s been huntin’ pirates down the Sand Coast.”
“I’ll say,” Edan agreed, taking in the man’s size and his confident stride. “Looks like he eats pirates for breakfast every day.”
“Breakfast, lunch and dinner!” the first mate of Orin’s Pride said as he strode across the gangplank and clapped Tim on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Tim! You’ve grown a hand since we left!”
“Good to have you back safe, Master Horace,” Tim said, obviously a little embarrassed by the man’s affectionate display. “Were you really
huntin’ pirates like they say?”
“Oh, aye, and took six of ‘em!” He rolled up the sleeve to show the row of six neatly tattooed skulls on his forearm, each with a letter P on its grim brow. “Come on aboard, Tim, and bring yer friend here, too. I’ll show you ‘round. The Captain brung somethin’ for ya from Marathia.”
“He brought something for me?” Tim’s voice broke in a screech, and he fairly hopped up and down with excitement. “What is it?”
“Well, you’ll just have to come see it, won’t ya! Come along then!”
“Thank you, sir, but I’ll just wait here,” Edan said, trying not to show his fear of crossing the gangplank.
“Oh! Sorry. Master Horace, this is Edan,” Tim said, nodding to him. “He’s apprentice to the lightkeeper at Southaven, and he’s going to take his trials to be a firemage soon!”
“Oh, aye! Heard of you, we did! Nobody said ya brung a wee fire demon with ya, though.” The mate stuck out a beefy hand that enveloped Edan’s and tried to crush every bone in it, then reached out to poke a finger at Flicker. She scowled and her hair flared with her temper. “Oy, but she’s a cutie! Don’t care fer the water much, then, do ya?”
“Not much, sir,” he admitted, trying not to grimace. He shortened Flicker’s chain before she could dart forward to catch the man’s shirt on fire. “I’ll wait here, Tim. Go ahead.”
“Right.” Tim nodded and accompanied the burly mate back aboard the ship, eyes as big as hen’s eggs as he was shown the engines of warfare.
Edan turned to walk back up the pier, thinking to wait in the shade of the keep’s foyer, but stopped in his tracks before he’d taken a single step. Camilla was walking — no, gliding — down the steps of the keep, her hair glowing in the mid-morning sun like burnished copper. She wore a plain russet gown, unadorned and rather loose fitting; the color complemented her hair, although the gown did nothing to flatter her otherwise. But it could no more make her ugly than a poorly cast setting could make a ruby less dazzling.
Flicker let out a disgusted sigh and scorched his ear.
Scimitar Sun Page 19
