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

by Mercedes Lackey

  “But that protection had come too late. While I’d been out of the way, he’d married one of the Sea Lords’ daughters. Small chance the courts would have given me a fair hearing before, but Bellamy is now the son-in-law of a Sea Lord and very likely in line to be appointed one of them himself as soon as there is a vacancy. I might as well try to overthrow a crowned monarch as go up against him at law.”

  “But—you said the guild—”

  “Would sanction a ship or a captain, yes. If I were flogged, or starved, or forced to labor as a common seaman, or deprived of my wages. But it would not pay the costs of a court case. I might as well throw a thousand golden angels into the Temese and spend them upon a lawyer—if I had them. And I did not. And so I make my own way in the world, and if it is a different one than my father hoped for me, it is still a good one. But what of your story, Clarence? I am certain there is more to it than swan kings and magic crowns.”

  She could not imagine how he’d survived such disasters and betrayals to become the sweet, generous friend to her that he now was. All she could offer him was her acceptance of his confidence, and what distraction she could provide. So she gathered her wits to recount her own tale. She had perfected her false history during her months of travel, and it came easily to her lips now.

  “When I spoke to you of Swansgaarde, I spoke of my home, but it is no mythical land. It is one of a dozen or so tiny principalities in the Borogny Mountains. The people there live by farming and herding. The only town of any size is called Heimlichstadt. It lies a few miles from Castle Swansgaarde and contains a university of some renown. And there my tale begins. I was born within the sound of the great carillon of the university to a prosperous lawyer’s clerk.”

  She had chosen such a background for herself because she’d watched her father preside over the quarterly sessions of the High Court since she was a child, and even in the unlikely event someone questioned her about some obscure point of Swansgaarde law, she could answer with assurance.

  “I was the eldest child, and my parents saw to it that I lacked for nothing. I learned to ride, to hunt, and to fence, and for some time my father hoped I would read for the law, to become a clerk, as he was, or perhaps even a lawyer myself. But I had no head for the law, nor for clerking, and so, seeking to broaden my experience, I took to travel. For the last several months I have traveled. I spent nearly two months in Vinarborg before I came to Lochrin. By then I had discovered the trade I wished to follow, one at which I have some skill. But to earn my bread as a master of swords, I need a formidable reputation, a goodly store of tales of my adventures, and a great deal more practical experience. No one will go to a swordsmaster whose expertise, however vast, consists in merely taking lessons himself.”

  “Well, perhaps you will find what you seek in Cibola, or in Manna-hattan, or in Avignon, or Valois, or in some other city of New Hesperia.”

  “Perhaps I shall. These are all great ports, I imagine?”

  “What sailor knows anything of land save where it meets the water? And now, the hour grows late. I give you good night, friend Clarence.”

  “And I, you.” Clarice got to her feet and swept him an elaborate courtly bow. She was rewarded with a small but genuine smile as Dominick turned away.

  Clarice watched him go, feeling troubled.

  Suddenly she was glad she had taken the time to send a letter home on her last day in Lochrin. She had made up a packet of her diaries and sent them along with a letter. There was nothing in the diaries her parents might not see, and her letter was meant to be read to everyone. In another month at most they would receive it and know she was safe and well. She could imagine how everyone would respond, from Anise’s complaints that she did not include more history of the lands she visited, to Damaris’s disappointment that she had not slain at least a dozen highwaymen.

  As the eldest child of a large family, she had not lacked for playmates and even friends. But for the first time in her life Clarice had a friend whose life was a mystery to her imagination. She could not visualize the street upon which he had once lived, could not imagine the bedroom in which he’d slept, could not consider his days and know them to be similar to her own, for they were not.

  Clarice had never been able to give her friendship freely, and certainly not her heart. A ruler could have no favorites, and a princess consort must wed for duty.

  Clarence Swann’s life, she discovered, was as much a mystery to her as Dominick’s was. She wondered how long Asesino would remain in Cibola. Perhaps he would show her the island.

  The thought of him went down with her into sleep that night.

  * * *

  Clarice woke, as she did each morning, to a soft double tap on her door. Dominick’s quarters were nearby, and he rose early to take a dawn sighting—though he’d spoken no more than the truth when he’d said that he would have little to do on this voyage. If she slept through breakfast—and she had, once or twice—nothing was to be had until lunch, and so he’d appointed himself to give her a wake-up call. The days when she might have gone to Mr. Emerson to tease out of him a late breakfast were long gone. The last time she had tried it, Simon Foster had seen her. She’d received a long lecture about the parts of the ship a mere paying passenger was to stay strictly away from. For herself, she didn’t mind, but she wished to add no fuel to the feud between Mr. Foster and Mr. Emerson, lest it end in more punishment.

  Lighting her lamp, she uncorked a bottle—a former wine bottle, now repurposed—and poured her washbasin full of fresh water. Giving herself a quick scrub, she toweled herself dry and prepared to dress for the day.

  The first item, as always, was the so-necessary corset. Clarice regarded it with a faint regretful sigh. It had seemed so light and comfortable before she’d come on this tropical pleasure cruise!

  She dusted the inside of the corset with talc, then slipped it over her head. Once she’d snugged the lacings down tight and tucked them carefully away, she picked up her shirt, sniffing it experimentally.

  She wrinkled her nose. Not too bad, she decided judiciously. She could pay one of the sailors to wash her clothes—those items that could be washed, at least, for velvets and embroidered satins required expert care—but the washing would be done in salt water, not fresh. She intended to put that off as long as possible.

  After the shirt and drawers and breeches came the weskit. The gray linen one was the lightest weight—she would certainly have items more suited to the climate made when they reached Cibola! She picked up the brooch that had been her parents’ parting gift to her and kissed it, just as she did each morning, before pinning it carefully to the inside of her weskit. She did not wish to display it openly, but she wanted it close.

  She considered her choices, thinking with momentary longing of the chests and wardrobes full of gowns from which Princess Clarice could have chosen, before selecting the mustard-colored broadcloth. Young Mr. Swann traveled light, as befit an adventurer: the mustard, a blue wool, and the green velvet were the only coats she had; and the green velvet was … rather more formal than she thought breakfast warranted, especially on this ship.

  She took down last night’s stockings from the peg over which she’d hung them to dry—those, at least, she had been able to rinse each night in her washing water—and tucked them into her trunk, selecting a fresh pair. She pulled them on, buttoned the legs of her breeches to keep them from rolling down again, and pulled on her boots. The transformation from Princess Clarice to Clarence Swann was complete in all but a few incidentals. She brushed out her hair, tied it back with a broad length of black ribbon, and shrugged into her coat. Fortunately, the style for men had not required her to cut her hair. As she did every morning, she hesitated over the swordbelt and baldric before slipping the baldric free of the belt and buckling the belt into place. The baldric was ornamental—more advertisement that its wearer was armed—and under other circumstances, she might have left the items locked in her trunk.

  On this ship, she thoug
ht it was a good idea to remind her companions that she could defend herself.

  * * *

  This far into the voyage, breakfast had become oat porridge, sausages, and stewed fruit. If it was monotonous fare, it was hearty and filling, and both the coffee and the tea that were served at breakfast were hot and strong. She contented herself with coffee and porridge this morning, for it was already sultry, and the thought of a heavy meal was intolerable.

  David moved around the table like a silent ghost. No matter how often Dr. Chapman warned her there was nothing she—or any of them—could do, the sight of the cowering, terrified child filled her with anger. Dominick had said that the boy’s family had undoubtedly signed an indenture with Captain Sprunt—if he had any family at all.

  It was the only ray of hope, for Clarice well knew Captain Sprunt’s love of gold. An angel or two, she was certain, would be enough to pay him to break the indenture as soon as they made port—and she would be certain the entire matter was overseen by a lawyer she chose. After that … Well, that could be decided once she’d freed him.

  David filled Sprunt’s tankard, careful not to spill a precious drop. He began to back carefully away. The pitcher was nearly full, and heavy, and all his attention was focused on it. Suddenly he went sprawling backward. The pitcher slipped from his hands and fell to the deck.

  Captain Sprunt leaped to his feet, roaring in fury. “Clumsy half-wit guttersnipe! That’s a pitcher of beer wasted, and the deck filthy!”

  Freeman Lee folded his hands ostentatiously in front of him.

  He tripped David! He did it on purpose!

  Her hand went to the hilt of her sword, and she began to rise to her feet.

  Dr. Chapman’s hand came down on her forearm, his grip like iron, forcing her back into her chair.

  “But, Captain, sir, I—” David said, his voice shaking with terror.

  “Clumsy, wasteful, and insubordinate!” Captain Sprunt snarled. “A taste of the cat will cure that—will it not, Mr. Lee?”

  “Indeed it will, sir.” Mr. Lee grinned nastily.

  Clarice opened her mouth to protest. The hand upon her arm tightened, the grip punishingly strong. She looked toward Dominick. His face was white with rage, his jaw set.

  “I have found it to be a sovereign remedy for many evils that afflict the spirit of young boys,” Reverend Dobbs said fulsomely. “Beat them regularly, and they are all the better for it. Do you not agree, Mr. Moryet? Mr. Greenwell? Mr. Swann?”

  Clarice swallowed hard. “It is not the custom where I come from to beat children.” She kept her voice level with an effort.

  “Then perhaps you will learn something of value,” Dobbs answered gleefully. “Dr. Chapman? I am certain you will agree with me.”

  “My dear Reverend Dobbs,” Dr. Chapman answered tonelessly. “How can you ever be in any doubt about the extent with which I agree with you?”

  “Get that mess cleaned up,” Captain Sprunt said to David. “And then bring a fresh pitcher.”

  * * *

  Neither Dominick nor Dickon had any further appetite for their breakfasts. Neither did Clarice, but she was the only one who could possibly leave before the captain did, and she did not wish to desert her companions—or to give Sprunt more fuel for his anger. He had not yet decreed the number of lashes. Sixty could kill a grown man. David Appleby was just ten years old.

  After breakfast, Mr. Lee mustered the crew to witness punishment. Clarice would have gladly been anywhere else, but Dobbs stuck to her side like a shadow. She could not slip away unnoticed, and she was certain Dobbs would call her departure to Sprunt’s attention.

  Kayin Dako led the terrified boy out of the ranks, speaking gently to him as he did. He helped David remove his shirt—the boy would have forgotten to otherwise—and tied his wrists to the edges of the hatch cover. Bruises were clearly visible along his ribs.

  Mr. Lee took up the cat and gave it an experimental swish. Clarice saw David flinch, his eyes wide and staring with terror.

  “You may begin at your pleasure, Mr. Lee!” Captain Sprunt called down.

  “With pleasure, Captain!” Lee called back. “What is to be the count?”

  “Why, that’s correct, Mr. Lee; we had not decided that, had we?” Captain Sprunt said cheerfully. “Well, now. What should it be?”

  He is playing with David, as a cat with a mouse! Clarice’s fury was so great it nearly choked her.

  “I should say—purely as a medical man, of course—that your lesson will be well taught with five strokes of the cat.” Dr. Chapman managed to sound—and look—completely indifferent. “Naturally, sir, the matter is entirely in your hands.”

  There was a moment of breathless silence, and Clarice saw Sprunt about to agree.

  “Five lashes!” Reverend Dobbs exclaimed, turning ostentatiously to Clarice. “Why, my dear Mr. Swann, that will barely be enough to tickle!”

  He pretends to speak to me, knowing Sprunt can hear every word! The knuckles of her hand gripping the hilt of her rapier ached with the effort it took not to draw it.

  “Ten lashes, Mr. Lee!” Samuel Sprunt bellowed.

  * * *

  On the second stroke of the whip, David Appleby screamed, high and shrill.

  On the fifth, he stopped screaming.

  Dominick was arguing furiously with Mr. Foster. Clarice saw Foster smile mockingly as he pulled his sleeve free of Dominick’s impassioned grip, shaking his head.

  The beating went on. Six—eight—ten.

  It was done.

  Blood dripped from the boy’s back where the lash had cut. The welts were already rising, darkly purple with congested blood. Dominick motioned to Kayin, who came forward and held David Appleby upright as Dominick cut the ties that had bound him to the hatch cover. David’s arms dropped limply to his sides. Kayin looked to Dominick, unspeaking.

  “Is he ready to work, Mr. Foster?” Captain Sprunt called.

  Mr. Foster picked up the bucket of seawater that stood ready. “Will be in just a moment, Captain!” he called back. “Stand aside, you Ifrane lout!”

  Clarice saw Dominick nod fractionally. Kayin laid David, facedown, upon the deck and stood back, picking up David’s discarded shirt as he did.

  The seawater struck David squarely between the shoulder blades. He did not move.

  But Dr. Chapman did. He stumped forward across the deck, his cane thumping sharply on the planks. She saw him motion to Dominick, who lifted the boy to his feet. “I shall have him back in service as quickly as possible, Captain,” Dr. Chapman called over his shoulder.

  As they walked away, Clarice saw Dominick turn a look of burning hatred on Simon Foster.

  Mr. Foster saw it, too.

  * * *

  When Clarice had finally been able to escape Dobbs and visit the surgery, she found Dr. Chapman sitting with his patient. A pallet of blankets had turned the operating table to a makeshift bed. David lay on his stomach, bandaged from armpits to hips, still unconscious. The bandages were spotted with scarlet.

  “Opium,” Dr. Chapman said simply. “And I wish, by Neptune’s beard, I could keep him insensible all the way to Cibola.”

  “Is it very bad?” Clarice asked softly.

  “Bad enough. Ten lashes for a man is an uncomfortable business—and as you know, I speak from experience—but it is laid over a man’s bone and muscle. Young Appleby was laid open to bone. It will be a miracle if his wounds do not turn septic. He is already running a fever.”

  “You did as much as you could,” Clarice said quietly.

  “Oh, aye,” Dr. Chapman said irritably. “But did I do as much as I should have?”

  * * *

  “How is he, Clarence? Pray, tell me the truth.”

  Dominick had met her at the ladder to the deck. After the events of that terrible day, Clarice had been counting the hours until she could slip out of her cabin to seek out Dominick. His company was the only bright spot in an increasingly dark voyage.

  “I will tell you wh
at I know. It is not much. Or good.”

  She moved to step past him, but he put a hand on her arm. “I do not know if is safe for you to be seen in my company. I am a marked man now.”

  Clarice remembered the expression on Simon Foster’s face and repressed a shudder. “But they cannot force you to … commit a crime? Can they?”

  “No,” Dominick said in a low voice. “But if they say I have … There is little I can do. And soon I— But we were speaking of David,” he said firmly.

  Clarice told him what Dr. Chapman had said.

  Dominick looked away to hide his expression. “If that boy dies, it will be murder,” he said in a low voice. “And I swear I will see justice done.” He took a deep breath, obviously trying to compose himself. “And now I bid you good night, my dear friend. As good as it can be under such circumstances.”

  He turned and walked quickly away, clearly intent upon leaving her behind.

  Clarice stared after him for a few moments, then walked to the rail as if she had come topside for nothing more than a breath of air.

  It was all she could do for him.

  * * *

  It had been a week since David Appleby’s flogging, and the boy was still under Dr. Chapman’s care. His wounds had, as Dr. Chapman had feared, turned septic, and David raved and muttered with fever.

  Clarice had offered up her few nursing skills, bathing David in hopes of reducing the fever and helping Dr. Chapman to change his bandages, but neither of them could do much to combat the infection that ravaged the boy’s starved and mistreated body. Dr. Chapman did not want to say so, but Clarice could read the truth in his face. It was only a matter of time.