The House of the Four Winds: Book One of One Dozen Daughters

by Mercedes Lackey

  He would have been demanding to know where my brother or my husband was had I been wearing a dress, Clarice thought smugly to herself.

  No one would have recognized the slender, blond-haired, young man standing on the docks as Princess Clarice of Swansgaarde. She had a man’s height, and all that had been needed to transform the princess into Mr. Clarence Swann was an artfully cut suit of clothes and a specially made corset that flattened her breasts. The current fashion was for a full-skirted coat that fell to midthigh, and the waistcoat beneath it—worn buttoned up nearly to the throat—was almost as long. Her soft leather riding boots, flaring out at the knee, with their tidy spurs buckled across the instep, and wide-brimmed felt hat—fashionably turned up at three sides, and decorated with a stylish plume—completed her transformation from princess to adventurer. She had played the part of a boy in many of the family’s amateur theatricals, and if Mr. Swann seemed to be nothing more than a beardless youth, the rapier he wore at his hip—and his obvious ability to use it—discouraged his fellow travelers from attempting to take advantage of him, a matter she’d proved to her satisfaction many times in the past six months.

  Clarice had never regretted her decision to masquerade as a young man, for in all the tales she’d read, it seemed that the princes got to have the adventures while the princesses had to languish in a high tower or a woodland cottage and wait for something exciting to happen. As she’d made her way westward, no one had ever for a moment suspected she was other than what she presented herself as: a young man of good family and modest fortune out to see the world. Though she’d presented herself on several occasions as perfectly ready to duel, her confident assumption of victory had meant there was no opportunity to practice her skills.

  Having reached this bustling island at the edge of Eurus, Clarice had been trying to resign herself to retracing her steps. But in the days she had spent watching the passengers board the ships and the ships set sail, Clarice realized she had made up her mind: excitement and adventure were to be found in the New World, and that was where she would seek them.

  * * *

  A quick trip to the portmaster’s office and a small gratuity bought her the information that the next three ships sailing to the New World were the New Prometheus, the Cutty Wren, and the Asesino. Another small gratuity bought her advice on how to find their captains.

  James Galloway was the first name on her list. New Prometheus was a fine new ship, the portmaster’s clerk had told her, one that would suit Clarence Swann’s needs admirably. Apparently it also suited the needs of a great many other people as well, for Captain Galloway told her regretfully that he had no space for another passenger. She thanked him courteously and proceeded to the next name on her list.

  The Cutty Wren had a berth available, but she was primarily a courier vessel delivering mail and documents to New Hesperia, and her passengers sacrificed amenities to speed. Aboard her, Clarice would have to share her accommodations with as many as five other passengers. That sort of communal arrangement would make the preservation of her masquerade impossible. Captain Hawthorne was a cheerful man and took no offense at Clarence Swann’s desire for more private quarters and suggested several ships that would admirably meet his needs. Unfortunately, none of them was sailing within the next fortnight.

  “What of Asesino?” she asked. “She is sailing soon and was recommended to me.” She was careful to keep her voice slow and low. A woman speaks quick and high, like the flight of birds, she reminded herself. A man speaks with the low, measured bark of a hound on a scent.

  Captain Hawthorne frowned thoughtfully. “She’s one of Bellamy’s fleet and sails with a hired captain. I have not heard that Sprunt has any fondness for live cargo, begging your pardon, sir, but it will do you no harm to ask. You will find him at the Mandrake; it is his usual tavern. You’d best hurry; Asesino sails on the morning tide.”

  Thanking Captain Hawthorne for his advice, she paid for her shot and left the Mermaid’s Locker.

  All things in life had a hierarchy, she had discovered on her travels. Sometimes of money, sometimes of birth, and sometimes of inclination. She wondered which of the three was behind Captain Sprunt’s choice of drinking establishment, for the Mandrake was clearly several steps below the Mermaid, where her first two prospects had been found.

  Sawdust was on the floor, and from the look of it, it had not been swept out recently. The air was thick with the fumes of tobacco and the smell of stale beer. But by now she was no stranger to places even more dire than this; Clarice stepped boldly through the doorway and hailed the barkeep. “I am seeking Captain Samuel Sprunt of the brig Asesino. Is he here?”

  “Depends on who’s asking,” the man replied.

  “Why, someone who wishes to pay him money, of course,” Clarice answered lightly.

  That seemed to be the right answer; the barkeep jerked his chin toward the back of the tavern. “Table under the window, and you can tell ’im from me, ’e ain’t getting another pitcher until ’e pays for the last three.”

  This comment did not seem to require an answer, so Clarice merely inclined her head and walked in the direction indicated. The position of the table—and the two empty pitchers upon it—were ample indication she had found the right man.

  Samuel Sprunt was not the sort to instantly inspire confidence. In other circumstances, Clarice would have had little hesitation in dismissing him as nothing more than a common seaman, for his clothing was dirty and stained, evincing hard use and little care, and his thinning black hair was pulled back into a tarred rattail as was the curious custom of the sea.

  She seated herself without waiting for an invitation, removing her hat and setting it on a portion of the table that, if not clean, was dry.

  “Here, now. Who do you think you are?” Sprunt growled. “This is a private table.”

  “My name is Clarence Swann, and your ship was mentioned to me as one upon which I might purchase passage.”

  “We’re not—”

  At that moment the barmaid arrived, asking what the gentleman would have to drink.

  “Bring me another pitcher,” Sprunt said. “I’m dry as a dog’s bone.”

  “Pockets empty as his dish, too, I’ll wager,” she said unsympathetically.

  “I’ll pay.” Clarice took a silver quarter-angel from her pocket and set it on the table. It was the smallest coin she had on her, but from the barmaid’s expression, it was a great deal larger than what was usually seen here. Sprunt and the barmaid both grabbed for it; the barmaid got there first and whisked it into her apron.

  “Won’t be a moment, lovey,” she said, scooping up the empty pitchers and sauntering off.

  “You’re mighty free with your coin,” Sprunt growled.

  “I find it’s easier to pay for what I want than to argue about it. More peaceful as well.” Clarice put a hand on the hilt of her rapier.

  “Well, as I was saying, my lad, normally I don’t like to take passengers, but you seem like a good enough sort.” She had no trouble deciphering the crafty gleam in Sprunt’s eyes: he thought Mr. Clarence Swann was easy prey.

  “Your ship is bound for the Hispalides and New Hesperia with a cargo of tea, spices, brandy, and wool. It sails tomorrow. I shall require a private cabin. Do you have one available?”

  “Well, as to that, something might be arranged. I’m not sure it’d be up to the standards of such a fine lord as yourself.”

  Clarice gave him a mocking look and said nothing.

  The barmaid returned with a tray that held a pitcher and a pewter tankard. She set the tankard in front of Clarice, leaning low over her to pour it full, then indicated the coins on her tray. “Two spaniels a pitcher. Less you want to pay for what he’s already drunk.”

  It was forty silver angels to a gold angel, and a silver angel was worth forty spaniels. Clarice scooped up all but one coin deftly. “I don’t pay for a man’s drink unless I’m drinking with him,” she said with a smile. She dropped the coins into her po
uch and picked up her tankard. Sprunt had already taken possession of the pitcher and filled his own tankard.

  “Grasping harpy,” he said as the barmaid departed. “Do you travel on business, my lad? Asesino’s a good ship—the best—but she’s not so fast as some. It might be you wouldn’t see Lochrin again for a good half year. Won’t your family miss you? A sweetheart, perhaps?”

  He is fawning in one breath and bullying the next, like a fearful dog that is too cowardly to bite. And far too interested in her personal life for Clarice’s taste.

  “That’s hardly a matter for your concern,” she said repressively. “As it happens, I travel upon a small stipend bequeathed me by my late aunt. Alas, the whole of the principal vanishes into the hands of her lawyers at the moment I breathe my last, so I am determined to live a very long time.” The story had served her well in the past, explaining her leisured lifestyle without giving the impression that any great sum of money could be extracted from her. “Now. We were speaking of the availability of a private cabin?”

  Sprunt had already drained his tankard and refilled it. “Fine accommodations, fit for a fine lord such as yourself. You’ll eat at my own table, same as my officers, and I’ll see you dry-shod to the streets of New Hesperia.”

  “Then all we have to settle is the cost of such fine dining and fine accommodation.”

  “Five gold angels. Payable in advance, of course.” The pitcher was empty once more, and Sprunt flourished it meaningfully in the air.

  It wasn’t a small sum of money by any means, but it was more or less what Clarice had expected to pay. She dug into her pouch and produced a gold half-angel.

  “Take this in token of my desire to sail with you. I shall provide the balance, of course, before we arrive at our destination.” Clarice had no intention of paying the whole of Mr. Swann’s passage until they were within sight of the Hispalidean Isles, for she had received a quick yet thorough tutorial in the untrustworthiness of hired assistants during her memorable passage through the Borogny Pass.

  The coin vanished swiftly.

  The barmaid returned, and Captain Sprunt ordered another pitcher. Since he looked prepared to spend the entire day drinking at Mr. Swann’s expense, Clarice rose to her feet.

  “Then as we are in agreement, I will take my leave. There are a number of errands I must run before we sail.”

  Before Captain Sprunt could argue—or attempt to try to convince Mr. Swann that as another pitcher had already been ordered, he must pay for it—she collected her hat, bowed, and made her escape. She had nearly reached the door when a young man—clearly a ship’s officer—entered.

  No greater contrast with the slovenly captain Sprunt could be imagined, for the newcomer’s coat and trousers were immaculate, and his soft brown hair was cut short, rather than tarred and pigtailed. Clarice stood aside to let him pass, then lingered in the doorway as he made his way to Captain Sprunt’s table. He was roughly her own age, she judged, which was not uncommon, since many seamen of both naval and merchant fleets began their apprenticeships as young as eight. The young man approached Captain Sprunt and bent over to speak to him. Whatever the officer had to say was evidently not to the captain’s liking, for apparently it took a good deal of persuasion before Sprunt heaved himself to his feet and stomped out. He attempted to rearrange his features into a pleasant expression as he passed Clarice and was not entirely successful. She watched him depart with mild curiosity, wondering if she should reconsider her choice of ship. A half-angel, even if it was gold, was a small price to pay for avoiding unpleasantness.

  “Pardon me, sir, but are you the gentleman who has booked passage aboard the Asesino?”

  Clarice turned, to find herself face-to-face with the young man who had spoken to the captain.

  “I am.” She frowned in puzzlement.

  He held out his hand. “Then on behalf of Asesino and all her crew, I bid you welcome! I am Dominick Moryet, and I have the honor of sailing as her navigator. I should like to—” He broke off, blushing a little. “I should like to ask you not to mind Captain Sprunt’s manner overmuch. He has a few odd ways, but he is one of the best captains to be had in all of Albion. And lucky as well—he has twice been boarded by pirates, and yet, as you see, he is still here.”

  Dominick held out his hand, and Clarice shook it firmly. His grip was strong and warm.

  “I am Clarence Swann. He did not look at all pleased to see you.”

  Dominick grinned. “I came as the bearer of bad news, sir. We sail tomorrow, as you know, and I’m afraid I told him that he must go and buy our cook out of jail, if we are to have any feeding at all.”

  Clarice smiled back. “I should hate to starve all the way to the Hispalides, for that is a voyage of some weeks, is it not?”

  “A month if the winds favor us, two if they do not. Have you sailed before?”

  “No great distance,” Clarice said dismissively. “Perhaps you will give me some idea of what I might expect—if you are not engaged elsewhere, of course.” She gestured toward the table Captain Sprunt had just vacated.

  “I should be pleased, Mr. Swann. I am of no use at all until we are at sea—and then, I flatter myself, I am vital. But may I suggest a change of venue? There is a coffeehouse not far from here that I am accustomed to frequent when I am in Lochrin. You might find it agreeable.”

  “Lead on, Mr. Moryet.” Clarice gestured for him to precede her. “I have not been so many days here that I know the city well, and I would be glad of your instruction.”

  The establishment her new friend led her to was different in every way from the Mandrake. The Golden Wheel had large bow windows and was light and airy. Its bare wooden floor seemed to have been scrubbed within an inch of its life, and the brass footrail of the polished counter gleamed as brightly as new-minted gold.

  The atmosphere inside seemed to be almost that of a private club. The tables at the back were all occupied by grave, bespectacled gentlemen who consulted together over stacks of paper and rolls of maps.

  “They are assurance agents,” Dominick said, noting the direction of her glance. “A ship cannot sail without being indemnified.” He directed her to a table at the front. It could seat ten, and two of the chairs were already occupied by a man and a woman a few years older than Dominick, both reading the newspaper. The woman’s skin was the same shade as the beverage she drank, its darkness a vivid contrast to the whiteness of her linen collar and russet wool gown.

  The first time Clarice had seen someone with skin of such a color had been in Vinarborg, and for a moment she had been astonished, until she realized she was seeing her first Ifranian. Ifrane was a continent so large that all of Eurus could fit into it several times over. Since then she had become accustomed to the sight, for Ifranians lived in every great city of Eurus.

  It seemed to be the custom to share tables here, for the woman looked up and smiled, gesturing them to the unoccupied chairs before returning to her reading.

  “What do they assure?” Clarice asked as they seated themselves.

  “Why, that a cargo and a ship should arrive,” Dominick answered, sounding surprised. “What a ship carries is rarely her own property and has been bought and sold long before she leaves port. If she does not arrive—I assure you that is a rare occurrence—someone, the Cornhill Society in this case, must make good the loss.”

  The server arrived and presented the bill of fare. Clarice discovered that one could order tea or chocolate, call for a pipe of tobacco or a cup with dice, and even request bread, cheese, and oranges.

  “There are many who arrive when the Golden Wheel opens her doors in the morning and do not leave until the lamps are lit,” Dominick said with a smile. “They would starve were there not food to be had.”

  “It seems entirely convenient.” Clarice ordered chocolate—for it was a luxury she had often missed on her travels—and bread and cheese.

  “Enough to share,” Dominick said, placing an order for a pot of coffee. “And a bowl of o
ranges, too. Fresh fruit is the thing I miss most on a long voyage, and I dare say you will, too, for we go weeks without it. You have said this is to be your first time at sea, Mr. Swann?”

  “It is, and I look forward to the experience. But you must call me Clarence, Mr. Moryet, if only for introducing me to the pleasures of such a delightful establishment.”

  “And so I shall, Clarence. And you must call me Dominick,” he said charmingly. “For we are no ship of the line, to stand upon formality.”

  “Dominick,” she agreed. “Perhaps you can tell me what I might expect? I have the promise of a private cabin, but I understand Asesino does not commonly carry passengers.”

  “As to that, I cannot say,” Dominick answered carelessly, “for this is my first voyage on her as well. But I know her type. She is a good merchant brig. We sail first to Cibola in the Hispalides and then on to New Hesperia, where we shall make port in Manna-hattan. I have been there many times; it is a vast island that lies near to the mainland, and its harbor is excellent.”

  Clarice repressed a smile. Just as a carpenter might look at a forest and describe it in terms of its excellent timber, she supposed a sailor might view all cities in terms of harborage. “You mentioned that Captain Sprunt has previously been boarded by pirates. Are they common upon this route?”

  Their server returned, wheeling a small cart, and set out their food. The oranges were presented in a blue-and-white porcelain bowl that had surely come from Khitai, the bread was fragrant and still warm from the oven, the wedge of cheese still wrapped in its cloth. The fragrance of the coffee nearly made Clarice regret her choice until she picked up the wooden handle of her own pot and tipped it over her cup. The rich scent of the chocolate made her sigh with pleasure.

  “I think chocolate is one of the best things to come from New Hesperia,” Dominick said with a smile. “It is a great pity, of course, that both chocolate and coffee come from Iberian lands rather than Albionnaise. But you mentioned pirates. Permit me to put your mind at rest. They know that a ship sailing westward is less likely to hold much of value to them, and even on an eastward voyage, they are less likely to trouble a ship of Albion than one of the Hesperian treasure ships. They know our cargo is more likely to be furs, cotton, and sugar, rather than gold, silver, and gems. You may expect an uneventful voyage in both directions.”