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

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Why?” Clarice looked around carefully before she spoke, but no one was close enough to hear. “You know precisely how much I know about seamanship, but—it doesn’t look as if it would take much work to secure the cargo.”

  “Oh, as to that, not so much work at all. But there’s all those hogsheads to be filled with freshwater, and each to get a bottle of good whiskey poured in to keep it sweet—which means a bit of whiskey poured into us as well, and rightly so, for you’ll see there’s no river in sight to pump the water out of.”

  “Then…” Clarice stopped. Mr. Thompson had mentioned the pump outside the chandlery. “You’re going to fill them with buckets,” she said in realization.

  “That we are.” Kayin sighed. “And a very great many of them. Times like that, it’s just as well there’s nobody in sight but those doing the work. And if the captain was here, I’d tell him the same.”

  “Wise counsel,” Clarice said gravely. “And I will take it.”

  * * *

  Kayin’s offhand comment had brought Dominick to the forefront of her thoughts again.

  More for something to do than out of any desire to go on hunting for Dominick, Clarice wandered about Dorado. She tried not to think how this expedition would have been a thousand times more fun if she’d been able to share it with Dominick. She imagined their conversation: what she’d say, how he’d answer. The stories they’d share of their adventures—hers on the road, his on the sea. She thought of his shy smile, of the wicked sense of humor he kept so concealed. She wanted to see Dorado through his eyes.

  But he wasn’t here. And all she could think of was the last words he’d spoken to her.

  “At least I will die by my own choice—and free you all with my death. It is the lot I have drawn. I should be grateful I’ve been left that much freedom. I thought you would be happy for me—for the sake of friendship, if nothing else.”

  “But how can I be happy if you’re dead?” she whispered softly.

  In a bleak mood she reached the town square. Dobbs’s body was gone, of course. Not even a suspicion of stink remained—just an open square with a gibbet in the middle, looking like nothing more sinister than a quaint, archaic ornament to a picturesque locale. It was all so very tidy and civilized. Somehow that made everything worse when Dorado was neither tidy nor civilized, but chaotic and feral beneath its lying surface.

  But at the far corner of the square she spotted some familiar shapes displayed in a window. Books! Just the thing to raise her spirits. The little jingling bell that she heard when she opened the door of the shop was enough to make her ache with homesickness. Nothing bad had ever happened to her in a bookstore.

  Yet.

  She removed her hat and tucked it under her arm as she moved farther into the store.

  “Are you looking for something in particular, sir?” the man at the desk asked.

  “Just to see what there is,” she answered briefly.

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with. Matthew Pratchett’s my name. Owner and sole proprietor of Pratchett’s Fine Books.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pratchett,” Clarice said automatically.

  The books were a random collection: poetry, essays, plays, sermons.

  She was hesitating between a collection of plays by the False Marlowe and an epic poem about the founding of the Cisleithanian Empire when her attention was summoned by movement outside in the square. A carriage—the first she’d seen here—was arriving, a light chaise of the sort usually drawn by a single horse. But no horse was in sight. The chaise was hitched to four men—Cisleithanian, by their skin color—and each pair was bound together by a light yoke that kept them side by side. Each of the four wore a collar and had a branded cheek. Slaves. It was as if Clarice had wandered into a nightmare thinking she was still awake.

  A lady was seated in the chaise; she was dressed all in pink silk, in the latest and most fashionable Wauloisene mode, and the color glowed warmly against her dark skin. Her hair was swept up, and she wore a tiny hat perched as if to swoop down across her forehead. The lavish ostrich feathers that adorned it—dyed pink to match her gown—were larger than the hat itself. Clarice watched as the fashionable lady twirled a tiny lace parasol and leaned over to address some companion walking on the far side of the chaise.

  Then that companion stepped around to the near side of the chaise, to help its passenger down.

  It was Dominick.

  Distantly, Clarice heard a thud as the books in her hands hit the floor. The woman dressed in the highest style of Old World fashion was Shamal.

  Kayin’s words from the other day echoed through her mind, mocking her. “She was a fine lady. She had a parasol. And a fine carriage.”

  And what—who—was drawing her carriage when you saw it, Kayin?

  Clarice swallowed hard, tasting bile. In the square, Dominick offered Shamal his arm, and they began to stroll away. After a moment Shamal looked back and gestured. The slaves turned the carriage about, heading back the way they’d come.

  “Are you all right, sir? Sometimes the sun takes a body unawares. Come and sit down for a moment.” Mr. Pratchett had come out from behind his desk, his expression anxious.

  “I’m fine,” Clarice said gruffly, but she came along.

  Behind the desk was a mahogany bench along the wall. She sat down and leaned her head back against the wall. She felt …

  Bruised.

  A moment later Mr. Pratchett came back. He had her hat in one hand, and the books she’d dropped. Whatever they were.

  “I’ll take them both,” she said, reaching for her hat.

  But as she did, she realized she could not leave yet. She’d lost sight of Dominick and Shamal, and the last thing she wanted was to encounter them.

  “How did you come to open a bookshop here, if I may ask?” she asked, almost at random.

  “You’re new come to our fair isle, I take it?” Mr. Pratchett asked shrewdly.

  Clarice hesitated, but she could do little but answer. “I came with the brig Asesino.”

  “And soon you will sail away again. And meanwhile, you walk the streets a free man.”

  She frowned faintly. It seemed an oddly obvious observation.

  “Ships of the Brotherhood are the only ones who sail into the House of the Four Winds and sail out again. If you’ll permit an old man a word of advice: when you sail free again, forget you ever made landfall here. Or, out of pity, bring no one here alive.”

  “But surely it is better to live than to die,” Clarice said with a bitterness that surprised her.

  Mr. Pratchett chuckled darkly. “Thus speaks youth! Hear my tale, and judge for yourself, for I see you are not entirely aware of what being a client of the House of the Four Winds entails.” He seemed happy to have a fresh audience for his tale, and Clarice was cravenly glad to have an excuse to linger.

  “When the Morning Calm was taken, I assumed I and my fellow passengers were spared to be held to ransom. But no. We were to be enslaved. Most of the Ifranes you will see here have been kidnapped into slavery in their homeland and brought westward. The lords and ladies of the House of the Four Winds do not trust them not to seek revenge, but our great nobles must have servants. And that is our fate.” Mr. Pratchett paused for a moment, polishing his spectacles upon a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “We serve for seven years—to repay the cost of our capture, we are told. And then we are free, those of us who survive. Free to starve or to sell ourselves into slavery forever. Only a few of the luckiest manage to find some trade to ply. But no matter how we may prosper here, we may never leave. We are bound to Dorado forever.”

  It was a terrible story, but Clarice had no doubt of its truth, and once more she had the sense of something missing. Why did the pirates preserve the passengers and bring them here? Why not enslave them once and for all instead of offering them the tantalizing chance of freedom?

  It was another riddle, and she doubted Mr. Pratchett had the answer to it. So she thanked him
for his time and care and left the shop. Dominick and Shamal were nowhere to be seen.

  Where were they? Where was he? Until now, Clarice had thought Shamal had only as much interest in Dominick as a cat might in a mouse. And yet …

  And yet, it is clear she has forced him to bear her company these last three days as if he were some besotted swain, and she the apple of his eye! What could she want—what more could she want—than control of Asesino and her captain?

  Her handsome young captain, Clarice thought bitterly. Her steps slowed. Something in this was not right. Lady Shamal was the most powerful woman on Dorado. Dorado was a haunt of pirates.

  Pirates elected their captains.

  True, Dominick meant to end his life the moment they were at sea, but Shamal could not—Clarice prayed—know that. Yet, Shamal could not believe Dominick could manage to do her bidding once Asesino sailed free of here. Dominick is well liked, that is true. But no captain of mutineers is well liked enough to sail his ship to certain doom.

  There is another string to her bow. And I need to know what it is.

  Her first thought was to seek Dr. Chapman’s counsel. The thought of violating Dominick’s trust in her made Clarice wince, but she could not let Dominick keep this secret at the cost of so many lives. She struggled with her conscience all the way back to the ship, and the best she could manage was to confront Dominick before she went to Dr. Chapman and hope he would agree to speak.

  If he did not, she must do it anyway.

  But confronting Dominick was easier decided than done. He was still gone when she checked his cabin. Kayin, finding her there, said the water barrels were full and their supplies delivered and checked. Some minor work remained to do, but they could sail the day after tomorrow.

  “Or any day past the day we’re given our direction,” Kayin said darkly. “And where are we meant to sail for? Any honest port is closed to us.”

  “No,” Clarice said. “Sprunt was a pirate, and we overthrew him, and so we are not mutineers after all. All we need do is tell our tale—Dorado itself is our proof of innocence. As for how the House of the Four Winds has convinced itself we will sail at their bidding, I think Dominick can answer that better than I.”

  Kayin nodded. “I hope he’ll speak soon. I don’t like it here.”

  “Tonight, I am sure,” Clarice promised recklessly. “I shall go to him myself the moment he’s aboard.”

  Kayin smiled, his teeth a bright flash against his dark skin. “And I’ll be sure you know when that is.”

  * * *

  But Kayin’s assistance was unneeded, for when Dominick walked up Asesino’s gangplank, Clarice was on deck. She’d spent the afternoon there pacing, trying to look as if she weren’t. Fortunately only a handful of people were aboard to see.

  Dominick was alone, which was a relief, and his shoulders slumped with tiredness. He greeted the watch briefly, but went below without looking around.

  Clarice followed him.

  She tapped at his door and opened it without waiting for an answer. Dominick was standing at the washbasin, coat off, pouring the contents of the ewer over his head.

  “Dominick?”

  He startled, dropping the pitcher. It hit the deck with a thud.

  “Clarence! This is … I mean, I am very tired, and—”

  “We have to talk.” Clarice closed the door behind her. “Kayin says we are nearly ready to sail. We need to make our plans. And to find out how Shamal means to make us go after this Heart of Light. What has she told you?”

  Dominick’s expression was a mixture of hurt and puzzlement. “You heard her. You were there.”

  All Clarice’s fear was turned to rage—a transmutation that did not require thaumaturgy. “You’ve spent the last three days wandering the island with her! I saw you! She holds all our lives in her hand—and yet you see nothing wrong with becoming her—her lapdog!”

  For a moment Dominick gazed at her blankly, then confusion gave way to horror. He staggered back a step, his face gone white.

  Clarice caught him before he fell. He clawed at her shoulders, trying to regain his balance, and for a moment she supported his whole weight. It was wrenching and unsettling in a way she had not imagined: she wanted to put her arms around him, to embrace him, to comfort him …

  To tell him who she was.

  To ask him why Shamal had wanted him to pretend he was her lover.

  Shamal.

  The thought of her silenced Clarice in this moment when she might have told Dominick everything. Shamal considered Clarence Swann a minor annoyance at worst. But Clarice…?

  “Here is a binding only true love can break.”

  Clarice would be an active threat.

  “I forgot Asesino, I forgot all of you—she said—she said—”

  Clarice helped him to the bed, where he collapsed on the edge and lowered his face into his hands with a groan.

  “You didn’t know?” she asked gently, her anger burned away by his reaction.

  “The morning after we had been to the House of the Four Winds, I awoke early. I could not sleep. I went ashore. I had some notion of going back to the House of the Four Winds, hoping to speak with Captain Fairfax. To discover more about this mysterious quest I had bound myself to. I heard a woman—Shamal—call my name … Nothing more. Oh, Clarence—what have I done?”

  “Nothing,” Clarice said firmly. She could not imagine what he must be feeling, to have had mind and will and memory all snatched from him. All she could do was offer him another illusion: that it did not frighten her. “You went on picnics, I think. And walked beside her carriage.”

  And were kept from speaking to anyone on the Pirate Council, and I wonder why?

  “And asked no questions.” Dominick sighed and tilted his head back to look at her. “And there are a good many I should have asked, Clarence. As you know.”

  “I know,” Clarice said softly. “And that is one of the reasons I wanted to speak with you so urgently. There must be more to this madness than Shamal bespelling you, for the crew won’t stand for sailing to nowhere. I think you must tell the others the whole truth. Tell Dr. Chapman, at least.”

  “No!” Dominick’s protest was immediate and automatic. He bit his lip. “I … Clarence, if the crew does not think I am to be trusted … I would not leave my worst enemy here, let alone those I am sworn to see safe home. Let us but sail free of this harbor, and I swear, I will tell anything to anyone you like. I swear it!” he repeated hoarsely.

  “As soon as we’re away,” Clarice said warningly. She didn’t know what the results of a panic among the crew while they were sitting here in the harbor would be—and she didn’t want to. “But tonight you must speak to Kayin and your other officers—of more mundane matters at least. We still do not know where we are sailing, or when, or how the pirates mean to make sure we go there.”

  “Good questions all.” Dominick’s voice was rough with exhaustion. “And I have no answers. You might as well gather them so we may pool our ignorance.”

  “They have gone ashore to supper.”

  “Then so must you,” Dominick said firmly. “And bring them back here when supper is done. And there is one thing more you can do for me, dear Clarence.”

  “Anything. You know that,” Clarice said instantly.

  “If Shamal summons me tomorrow—if her spell is somehow recast—do not let me answer her call.”

  “Certainly not. I shall lock you into your cabin myself. And soon enough we will sail away from here, and the problems we face will at least have the virtue of novelty.”

  “You make it sound simple.” Dominick laughed, as she meant him to.

  “Analysis usually is. It is execution that is the problem. Now lie down and rest for a while.”

  Dominick sighed and lay back on his bed. To her relief, the words Clarice expected to hear next did not come.

  She did not think she could have stood to be called a “good friend” just now.

  9

&n
bsp; VOYAGE DU MAL

  IT WAS late, and Asesino’s officers were gathered in the captain’s cabin.

  Clarice spoke first, summarizing the conversation she’d had with Matthew Pratchett, and the light it shed on the practices of Dorado, but omitting any mention of Shamal. “Law is for sale,” she said bluntly. “And slavery is … common.” She swallowed hard. The thought of the slave trade was still horrible.

  “Aye,” Kayin said quietly. “In my great-grandfather’s time, we’d say the death prayers over those loaded onto the ships—or taken for them—because they were dead, or as good as. It’s better now, but”—he shrugged—“if some will buy, some will sell.”

  “Mr. Thompson kindly offered to sell me a crew,” Clarice said tightly.

  “And that’s another matter we have to settle before we sail,” Dr. Chapman said. “No matter where we’re to sail, who’s to sail us?”

  “We’ve loaded supplies for eighty men,” Geordie said. “But … we don’t have eighty hands.”

  They were less than forty now, and while forty hands could sail Asesino in good weather, it meant extra work and longer watches—and a storm would doom them.

  “We will sail as we are and hope for the best,” Dominick said, speaking for the first time. “I can’t imagine signing a crew here.”

  “I can’t imagine how you could,” Dr. Chapman pointed out. “The captives who survive their arrival here aren’t allowed to leave, and there are no sailors among them, so far as I know. A ship’s crew has two choices when their vessel is taken: turn pirate or die. And one presumes those crews are happy where they are.”

  “I would be,” Dickon said. “From what you said, ships going after this Heart of Light don’t come back. And speaking of that—where are we to go? We have no charts, no destination…”

  “Perhaps we are to guess,” Dr. Chapman said with ponderous sarcasm. “If we must sail without crew, perhaps we can sail without charts as well.”

  “We know they cannot mean to simply let us sail free,” Dominick said. “I tell you plainly, gentlemen: should we find we can, I will make for Cibola and tell the governor everything I know of this hell pit.”