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

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Yes, but that was before I knew about our mysterious island. And it is true Sprunt might have chosen a course to sail us wide of some danger—marauders, or rival merchantmen, or great whales, or storms, or kraken. The sea is a thousand roads, and none. But … here is the place indicated by the talisman.” He set down another triangle. “And this is the course we have been sailing.” He indicated the penciled marks.

  “Your course and Captain Sprunt’s are not at all the same. But you said he might choose a different route for any number of reasons.”

  “True. But if you extend our present course in a logical fashion…” Dominick set more of the tiny gray pyramids onto the charts, starting at the last mark on the map.

  “Then that was his destination all along,” Clarice said slowly. “And not Cibola at all. But what’s there? Should we go and see? I think—”

  “It is not my decision to make,” Dominick said firmly.

  Clarice opened her mouth to argue. Not only was Dominick one of the few officers still on board, he was the only one who could sail the ship.

  Then she changed her mind. For all her brave talk (even if the only audience was herself and her diary), she was utterly unprepared for the situation in which she found herself now. It was one thing to decide, in the comfort and safety of Swansgaarde, to leave home and go adventuring. She’d been prepared for highwaymen and dishonest innkeepers. Perils she knew how to easily cope with or could leave behind. But her current situation was a kind of trouble beyond anything she’d imagined … and it was not hers alone. Everyone in Asesino’s crew was in just as much danger—and though it certainly wasn’t her fault, she could not help but feel their safety was her responsibility.

  And the worst thing about all this was that she suspected Dominick had no more idea of how to get them out of this mess than she did.

  Even so, you are not helping matters by sticking your head in the sand like, like—like an ostrich! You must … advise him. Somehow.

  Just then there was a quiet scratch upon the door, and a squeak as it was pushed all the way open. Clarice quickly dropped the talisman into her pocket. Kayin Dako was standing there, his enormous bulk filling the doorway.

  “It’s time, Dominick. If you’re ready.”

  “Yes, of course,” Dominick said absently. He swept the course markers back into the box and began to roll the charts on the table into neat cylinders. “Tell Mr. Greenwell our present heading is good. We’ll be right there.”

  4

  THE CASTING OF LOTS

  “YOU ALL know me, lads. And I’m here to tell you what’s to be done.”

  Emmet Emerson paced back and forth behind the foredeck guardrail like one of his own chickens. Of the fourscore souls who had sailed from Lochrin a few weeks before, a little over three dozen now remained, and nearly the whole of them were gathered here.

  By rights Clarice did not belong here at all, as she was only a passenger, but no one had objected when she stepped onto the deck with Dominick. And after all, she’d taken part, however haphazardly, in the ship’s liberation.

  “We’re mutineers, and there’s no point in dressing it up to make it look better than it is. Captain Sprunt was a bad ’un, and we sent him packing, so who’s to be captain now? A ship without a captain is like a body without a heart, and that’s the plain truth.”

  “You!” Geordie shouted before Emerson could continue. “You be our captain, Em!”

  The rotund cook stopped and glared. “And who’s going to get your dinner for you if I’m running this ship, Geordie Lamb? It’s plain to see you were standing behind the door when they gave out brains.” There was general laughter. “Let that be a word to you all,” Mr. Emerson said firmly. “I can captain this tub, or I can cook, but I can’t do both. But soonest begun soonest done. So oil up your tongues and let me hear you.”

  It swiftly became clear to Clarice that the idea was to put up a slate of candidates who would then be voted upon. Some of the choices were obvious. Dr. Chapman was one of the candidates, as were Kayin Dako, Ned Hatcliff, and Rogerio Vasquez, the armorer’s mate, a man with the dark eyes and dark skin of an Iberian. When each was nominated, he went to stand behind Mr. Emerson on the foredeck. Even Jerrold Robinson, the cook’s mate, was nominated, and whether or not it was a joke, he took his place beside the others.

  “Dobbs!” someone in the back of the crowd shouted. “Let us have Dobbs! Reverend Dobbs!”

  Clarice craned around, trying to see who it was, but the crowd was packed too closely. The first voice was joined by a few others, and then the crowd parted as Dobbs came forward, walking toward the ladder. His head was down, and his hands ostentatiously gripped his prayer book. But he could not repress a small smirk as he passed Dominick and Clarice.

  “Dominick!” Clarice whispered. “They cannot mean to elect Dobbs!”

  “I will not vote for him, you can be sure,” Dominick answered. “But any man on this deck may be nominated.”

  “Now that’s a fine tally, and any one of them a good captain,” Mr. Emerson said firmly. “Now, mark well the method that you will use to signify your choice. As I call out each name—”

  “What about Dominick?” Ned Hatcliff shouted suddenly. “Without Dominick none of us’d be wrangling over this now! He can captain us and navigate both!”

  “I—” Dominick began, but whatever protest he was about to make was drowned out by the shouts and cheers around him. Everyone seemed to think Ned Hatcliff’s notion was a good one.

  “Clarence—I can’t possibly!” he said into her ear.

  “Come on, Dominick!” Dickon said, taking his arm and pulling him forward. A moment later he stood with the other candidates.

  “Now, is there anyone else you layabouts think can do this job of work?” the cook asked. “Or shall we go about picking one of these fine fellows?”

  More laughter and demands that he get on with it greeted this speech.

  “I’m not stirring my stump until I can hear myself think!” Mr. Emerson shouted back. When there was quiet once more, he addressed the crowd.

  “Here’s the way of it. I’ll call out a name, see, and every one of you man jacks who wants to stand for him moves back over there by the rail, see? And I’ll count heads and mark down the number here on the bulkhead with this stick of chalk. And when all the votes is tallied, that’s Asesino’s new master. Now! All of you as thinks young Jerrold should be the captain, declare yourselves!”

  And so the election began.

  Clarice had never thought to see an election of any sort, even though she’d read about them in books. She had received a brutal education in how much power the captain of a ship could wield if he chose. It seemed near to madness to put such power into the hands of one selected by the mere casting of lots.

  And what if the Reverend Dobbs was chosen? His first act would surely be to force her to surrender the talisman. Map it might be, but Clarice did not think that was the whole of its secret. A string of numbers might be concealed on a slip of paper, a length of ribbon, a leather belt, a ring, without needing sorcery to place it there. So the talisman was more than the hiding place for a destination. Perhaps … a key?

  To what? she wondered in exasperation. Treasure, as Dominick thinks? If it is, why did Sprunt not claim it and buy a ship of his own? Or a fine house and servants, if there was enough of it?

  She could hardly ask him now, could she?

  With good-natured horseplay the men jostled about to take their places for the voting. Unsurprisingly, Jerrold Robinson did not receive many votes, but he took it in good part, laughing and blushing as he was teased. Rogerio Vasquez garnered only a few more supporters than Jerrold had, but swore he considered it an act of pure kindness that anyone who knew him would wish him to stand for captain.

  To Clarice’s surprise, at this point Mr. Emerson announced that, as both candidates had clearly lost, those who had voted for them must choose again. Dr. Chapman made a good showing; between them, he and Ned Hatcli
ff accounted for a dozen votes, with Dr. Chapman receiving the majority of them.

  Two dozen votes yet to be cast, and three possible candidates.

  Dominick’s was the next name to be called, and Clarice found herself clenching her fists tightly as the men—including Dickon—moved across the deck to be counted. He made a good showing, but two names were still to be called after his, Kayin’s and Dobbs’s.

  Kayin Dako was well liked among the crew, and there were cheers when he came to strut and swagger before the rail, grinning broadly. When his tally was called, for a moment Clarice was certain he had won, especially after Ned Hatcliff sprang over the rail, to her astonishment, to join those voting for Kayin.

  “I— Can he do that?” Clarice asked, astonished.

  Her remark was not directed toward anyone in particular, but Dickon answered, “A man’s vote is his own, to cast any way he sees fit.”

  “But—he is one of the candidates!”

  “And he could vote for himself, if he wished,” Dickon answered.

  When Kayin’s tally was called, it was a scant two votes shy of Dominick’s.

  “You’ll have me for your first mate then, Dominick?” Kayin demanded irrepressibly.

  “I should wish for no better,” Dominick answered.

  “And yet, your encomiums may well be premature,” Reverend Dobbs said smoothly, stepping forward. “For the last tally has not been made. Gentlemen of the Asesino! I present myself, humbly and with God’s guidance, as your new captain, should the Almighty in His wisdom cause you to choose me.” He gazed down on the quarterdeck and the men gathered there as if he were already their master.

  There was an uneasy silence. Clarice had already learned that sailors were as deeply superstitious as a medieval peasant—how not, when their very lives were at the mercy of forces they could neither control nor predict?—and oddly, for that very reason they avoided, whenever possible, clergymen and magicians.

  For an instant nobody moved. Then the group began to divide itself.

  It had been nearly impossible for her to keep track of who’d voted and who hadn’t, especially since Jerrold Robinson and Rogerio Vasquez’s voters had been allowed to recast their votes, but anarchic as the process was, those directly involved seemed to have a clear understanding of the proprieties. Nobody raised an objection as the votes mounted.

  “Thirteen souls for Reverend Dobbs,” Mr. Emerson said, sounding as if the words tasted bitter.

  One more than Dominick! Clarice thought in horror. She could not imagine what inducement he’d offered the men who had voted for him. Surely a few hours’ time had not been enough for them to forget he had been Sprunt’s crony, spared only for the sake of his holy orders.

  Perhaps that is the reason. If Dobbs sails us into Cibola and vouches for the men who voted for him, they will be spared. I do not think the crew will willingly sail into a hangman’s noose, but a pardon must be what he has offered them!

  “And that means—”

  “Oh, but wait! I have not yet cast my vote,” Dr. Chapman said, stepping forward.

  “Be silent!” Reverend Dobbs snapped.

  “You ain’t captain until all the votes are in,” Mr. Emerson snapped. “Who’re you going to cast your vote for, Doc?”

  “Why, for young Mr. Moryet of course,” Dr. Chapman said.

  “Me, too!” Kayin announced loudly. “I mean, it completely slipped my mind to cast a vote and all, and…”

  “And me! I mean, Mr. Emerson, I don’t think I voted, did I?” Jerrold asked anxiously.

  “Why, no, young Jerrold, I don’t believe you did,” Emmet said blandly. “Do ye wish to stand for Mr. Moryet?”

  “Yes!” Jerrold announced. “I mean—”

  “This is outrageous!” Reverend Dobbs said. “This unseemly attempt to contravene the will—”

  “I hope your next words aren’t going to be of God, Reverend,” Emmet Emerson said softly. “As I don’t think a man who claims he knows what’s on God’s mind is the sort of man I’d want to have as captain. And so I’m voting for Mr. Moryet—and that gives him a proper majority.”

  Clarice glanced toward Dominick.

  He looked more stunned than pleased. “But I—” He had won, but only by three votes.

  “Why, you have all my votes—and Dr. Chapman’s, too!” Kayin said firmly. “What say you, Ned?”

  “And mine!” Ned Hatcliff said stoutly.

  “And that is a goodly two-thirds of the souls afloat,” Emmet finished. “And no one could argue with that. Could they, Reverend Dobbs?”

  Dobbs took a deep breath and forced an unconvincing smile. “It is the law of the sea, Mr. Emerson. No one can argue with that.”

  * * *

  Despite his protests of inadequacy, Dominick seemed to have a good idea of what a captain needed to do. He redistributed the watches, as they had lost over half of their crew now, and ordered the contents of the now vacant cabins and lockers turned out and made available to all. He appointed Kayin as first mate and Rogerio as chief armorer. Dickon was confirmed as helmsman, and Mr. Emerson as cook, and of course there was no question about Dr. Chapman’s remaining as ship’s surgeon. Mr. Emerson suggested Geordie Lamb as their new purser, and Dominick ordered a full inventory of their supplies, with Mr. Emerson to draw whatever he wished from stores to prepare a good hot meal for everyone.

  Clarice found herself working as hard as anyone else, making lists of what was found and how it was handed out. Together she, Kayin, and Dominick finished the search of Captain Sprunt’s cabin; they found a great deal of liquor, sweets, and tobacco—if Sprunt had starved the crew, he didn’t stint himself.

  “That ends now,” Kayin said firmly, and Dominick nodded. “Yes, as does unjust and excessive punishment, though I expect you to deal with slacking and bad conduct, Kayin, for all our lives depend on the seaworthiness of Asesino.”

  At Dominick’s direction, Clarice turned over the liquor to Dr. Chapman, the candied fruit to Mr. Emerson, and the tobacco to Kayin, who promised that every man who wished should have a share.

  Coats, stockings, breeches, shoes, and shirts belonging to Sprunt, Lee, and Foster were added to what Dominick called the slop chest, from which the crew could replace their own worn, tattered, or (in some cases) bloodstained clothing. The discarded rags would be boiled, then divided between bandages and polishing cloths. The only exception was a fine brocade vest and a tricorne hat lavishly trimmed with plumes—formerly Sprunt’s property—for if Dominick was called upon to act the captain in front of strangers, he’d better be able to look the part.

  Kayin announced that he would move Dominick’s possessions to his new quarters at once—Clarice thought it had not occurred to Dominick he would have to move—and Clarice said it had to be cleaned first. Kayin had laughed and called for a work crew and said she must oversee it. Under Clarice’s guidance—consulting Ned Hatcliff carefully about what should be thrown over the side and what should be saved for reuse—the bunk was stripped, the mattress turned, the piles of litter and detritus collected, and cabin aired out thoroughly. Clarice called for oil, candles, and rags, took off her coat, rolled up her sleeves, and cleaned the furniture herself, to the great delight of the sailors. It felt good to be doing useful work at last, and Mr. Emerson contributed a basin of precious lemon peels—“So the job is done right and fitting,” he said.

  Now the wood gleamed, and the air smelled pleasantly of lemon and beeswax, and every trace of Sprunt’s occupancy had been erased. Dominick’s sea chest stood upon a stand at the foot of the bed, and all that remained was for the deck to be scoured and scrubbed.

  Clarice washed her hands in a basin and rolled down her sleeves. A glance toward the windows showed her it was nearly twilight. She regarded the splintered shutters with disfavor. Perhaps someone could remove and repair them—if anyone among their reduced crew had the skill or the time—but dealing with them was beyond her skill.

  “Good Lord,” Dominick said, stepping insid
e as she reached for her coat. “I would think myself suddenly transported to the finest inn Lochrin possesses! Surely you did not learn these skills from your fencing master?”

  Clarice thought, with a brief pang of longing and homesickness, of the hunting lodge at the foot of the Swanscrown. Maria Gantzer had been its mistress since the Old Duke’s time and had taught each and every one of her royal charges to wash and clean and polish as rigorously as if they were the newest housemaids entrusted to her tutelage.

  “From our housekeeper,” Clarice answered. It was not quite a lie. “My parents believed there was no shame in servants’ work and made sure I knew what it was, so I valued it as I should.”

  “If you cannot make your way as a fencing master, you should consider becoming an innkeeper, I think.” He glanced at a newly gleaming chair, then flung himself down to sit on the bunk instead. “I still do not know how this happened, Clarence,” he said in bewilderment.

  “Kayin wanted you to be captain if he was not chosen,” Clarice said reasonably. “Dr. Chapman did not want to be captain at all. Mr. Hatcliff lost fair and square, as did young Jerrold and Mr. Vasquez—”

  “—and I am not certain how Reverend Dobbs was nominated at all,” Dominick said slowly.

  “I am sure we are all better off not knowing that,” Clarice said gravely, though she had a pretty good idea. The gap between her and Dominick, she saw, was not one of age—for they were much of an age—or, really, of birth, for Dominick thought Mr. Clarence Swann to be a fellow such as himself, and Swansgaarde’s royal line was neither particularly grand nor particularly ancient. The difference between them was in how they had been trained. Clarice had been raised to look for both enemies and advantages everywhere, for if she had not been expected to rule Swansgaarde, she had still been trained to lead. But Dominick seemed to take the world at face value and to think everyone was ready to be his friend. Even now.

  Is that a good quality in a pirate captain—or a bad one? Clarice wondered. When I set off to seek my fortune, I certainly did not expect it to lie in piracy, but everyone says that is our only choice now.