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

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Nothing more? Not to any of you?” Dominick asked, blinking a little as he absorbed this information.

  “Nothing at all,” Dr. Chapman said.

  “Very well,” Dominick said, moving toward the table at last.

  * * *

  Jerrold had returned with the evening meal by the time the other three arrived. From the sour expression on Kayin’s face, Jerrold’s gossip had already made the rounds of the ship.

  There was roast chicken, new potatoes, two dishes of vegetables, and fresh bread—brought from Dorado, for Mr. Emerson had been too busy getting supper to have the time to bake—and clear turtle soup to begin. The smell of the chicken turned Clarice’s stomach, and she toyed with a glass of wine, her soup untouched. Had Shamal drunk the wine yet? Was she dead? Were they free?

  “Mr. Emerson will think you don’t like his cooking,” Dr. Chapman said in a low, meaningful voice, and Clarice forced herself to take a mouthful of soup. I am a woman pretending to be a man, pretending to be this ship’s first officer, pretending to be a pirate, pretending to be innocent of murder … I begin to lose track of all the roles I am playing.

  “I’m going to ask you straight out,” Kayin said to Dominick. “Is it true we aren’t to make for Cibola? We’re sailing north?”

  “That is where Shamal wishes to go,” Dominick said. “So that is where we’re sailing. For the moment, Asesino is hers.”

  “It isn’t fair dealing,” Kayin said. “I never asked to sail with a sea hag. You can stick your neck into a noose if you like, Dominick Moryet, but not ours. I won’t let you.”

  “How do you mean to stop me, Kayin?” Dominick wasn’t angry. He sounded weary to the point of despair.

  “We changed captains once,” Kayin said meaningfully.

  “Belay that talk!” Dr. Chapman snapped.

  “Fighting among ourselves will gain us nothing,” Clarice said.

  “And if I take Moryet and throw him over the side, will that gain us anything?” Kayin asked.

  “Nothing but the chance to anger the woman who holds all our lives in her hands,” Clarice answered steadily.

  “Which she didn’t, back in Dorado!” Kayin snarled.

  “Is that what you think?” Clarice shot back. “She could have had us all executed at any moment—or worse! How do you think Dobbs died—of a bad cold? That was her work. And so is this.”

  “You mean she killed Reverend Dobbs so Dominick would sail for her?” Geordie blurted out. “But I—my mother—”

  “You damned cloudwit,” Kayin spat. “You were a dead man the moment you signed aboard this hellsprite. But I’ll tell you straight: We’ll see Bowling Green before we see land again, you mark my words. If I’d known this was how it would end, I’d have let Sprunt kill us all. It would be an honest death at least.”

  “I like our situation as little as you do,” Dominick said forcefully. “But you knew what you were sailing with while the gangplank was still down. If you wanted to jump ship, Kayin, that was the time.”

  “And stay on Dorado!?” Kayin demanded.

  “Those were your choices,” Dominick answered evenly. “And let me remind you: The pirates don’t trust us. You might be willing to turn pirate, but you wouldn’t get that choice. Anyone I left behind would be hanging on that gibbet in the town square by now.”

  Kayin still looked angry. Geordie just looked scared.

  “Captain Moryet is the master of this vessel,” said Dickon, unexpectedly coming to the rescue. “He was the senior surviving officer after we were attacked by pirates. Electing him was a lucky chance because he’s our rightful master under sea law. Mutiny—again—and it will be for real. No Admiralty court will—”

  The door to the corridor flew open with such force that the hinges were torn from the frame and the wood splintered. All at the table sprang to their feet.

  “Who has tried to end my life?”

  Shamal stood in the doorway, wrapped in an utterly incongruous pink silk dressing gown. Her hair was disheveled, and her face was contorted with rage. She flung the empty wine bottle to the floor. It shattered with a whip-crack sound.

  “Must I ask again?” Icy fury had replaced hot rage in Shamal’s voice.

  Oh, God. Clarice had never believed in the old trope about one’s blood running cold with horror until this moment. I must tell her.…

  “No.” Dr. Chapman’s voice made Clarice jump. The look he gave her was as direct as a shout. Say nothing. “You need not ask. It was I.”

  “Not the boy?” Shamal purred, smiling now. “It was Clarence Swann who brought the tray.”

  “He had to pass by my surgery,” Dr. Chapman said steadily. “I called him in for a moment.” He took a step forward. “No one else knew.”

  “Kill him,” Shamal said, looking at Dominick. “Use the knife.”

  Dominick’s face flushed scarlet with the strain of fighting the enchantment, and his entire body shook. But he turned toward the table, and his fingers reached for the knife.

  “Good-bye.”

  From the corner of her eye, Clarice saw the hand-to-mouth movement.

  Dr. Chapman dropped to the floor. His cane clattered from his hand. His body thrashed once and lay still. The tiny brown bottle was still in his hand.

  Dominick staggered backward. The knife clattered to the table, the compulsion gone.

  You cannot kill the dead.

  There was a long silence.

  Then Dominick broke it. “If poison is going to be a regular part of your dinner parties, Lady Shamal, you must invite me to dine with you from now on.” His voice shook. Rage or grief or fear? Clarice didn’t know.

  “Perhaps I shall,” Shamal purred. She smiled mockingly and swept from the room, stepping over the ruins of the door.

  “I don’t understand,” Geordie said plaintively, staring at Dr. Chapman’s body in horror.

  “Jerrold!” Dominick’s voice was sharp. “Get two men to take Dr. Chapman’s body to the surgery. And tell Duff Evans we shall need a shroud made.”

  Jerrold fled, leaving the door to the deck open in his haste. Clarice concentrated on taking deep breaths. Men did not burst into tears, no matter how terrible the tragedy.

  He knew. He knew there was a chance the poison wouldn’t work. He prepared for it.

  In his gruff, blunt way Dr. Chapman had been her friend and mentor. It did not matter that he’d been the one to suggest the plan. Hers had been the hand to administer the poison. But he’d sacrificed himself to save her. He’d suspected—he must have—that poisoning Shamal wouldn’t work. There’d been no other reason for him to have poison of his own ready to hand.

  But the guilt of standing by and doing nothing while he gave his life for hers was enough to choke her.

  “The last words he had from me were in anger,” Kayin said brokenly.

  “He had forgiven you already,” Dominick said softly. “But there was nothing that needed forgiveness. You spoke nothing more than the truth. I have endangered us all. He only tried to save us from my folly.” Dominick hesitated for a moment, and Clarice held her breath. “I have endangered us all.”

  “No,” Kayin said. “You gave us a chance. The best chance you could, Dominick. You always have. And if that sea hag means to sail us to the gates of hell, I’ll be at your right hand.”

  “And I,” Dickon said. “No matter what course you set.”

  Geordie gulped and nodded wordlessly.

  “And I,” Clarice said, reaching out to place her hand on Dominick’s shoulder. “To the gates of hell, and as far beyond as you care to go.”

  Dominick closed his eyes in silent agony. “Such trust—such friendship—I don’t deserve— If you only—”

  “I know that Dr. Chapman, God rest him, thought you his true captain,” Clarice said strongly. “And we will all honor his memory.”

  Two men came to carry Dr. Chapman’s body away.

  10

  TO THE BODY OF THE DEEP

  IT WAS late. Only
the night watch should have been on deck, but the whole of Asesino’s original crew was gathered to see Dr. Chapman to his final rest. The tale had ripped through the ship like a strike of lightning: Dominick had been forced to sail with a sorceress aboard to the destination of her choosing. Dr. Chapman had tried to kill her and died for it.

  When the work party had taken his body to the surgery to prepare it for burial, they’d found a letter. A neat confession taking all responsibility, explaining how he would lie in wait for Mr. Swann to bring the tray. How he would send him on an errand while he adulterated the meal.

  Lies, all of it. But it might be enough to convince Shamal he’d been telling the truth if she investigated further.

  Oh, Clarice, you are assuming she will care about what is true and what isn’t! Why should she care about anything beyond her own whim?

  At least Clarice could offer up her nursing skills in token of her usefulness. Fifty men were in quarters who needed to be turned into some semblance of working sailors, with a score of minor injuries still to be seen to.

  And their ship’s surgeon was dead.

  Kayin and Dominick carried the sailcloth-wrapped bundle to the ship’s rail. Clarice had prepared the body for burial as best she could, and Duff Evans had wrapped it in chain and sewn it into its shroud.

  A soft plash, and it was over.

  “No one to say the words,” Kayin said quietly.

  “I will say them.” Clarice took a deep breath. She’d heard the service for the dead when they’d put their dead over the side after the mutiny. She’d never dreamed she’d need to say the words herself.

  “‘We are gathered here to commit the body of Lionel Chapman to the deep, to rise up at the last day when the sea shall give up her dead. On that day the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in earth or sea shall be changed and made incorruptible and raised up again to glory. The Lord bless him and keep him and give him peace. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Amen.’”

  “Amen,” Kayin and Dominick echoed softly. The word of farewell rippled softly through the crewmen gathered to witness.

  Clarice stared sightlessly out at the night. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts it took her a moment to notice Kayin and Dominick were still there, standing a few feet away.

  “In a few days, we’ll be near enough to Cibola for you to make it there by boat.” Dominick spoke so softly Clarice could barely hear. “Take as many of the crew with you as you can. Get a message to the governor. If he will send ships after Asesino, those of us who remain aboard may hope for rescue. But at least the Crown will be warned.”

  “‘A few days,’” Kayin said. “She’ll be suspicious. Especially after the poison.”

  “I’ll distract her when the time comes,” Dominick said. “But I’ll need you to do all the rest. Tell me nothing. What I don’t know, I can’t betray.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. Leave it to me.” Kayin walked away.

  “Bear me company, Clarence?” Dominick asked, and she nodded.

  She followed him toward the cabin that had so briefly been hers. Gregale still stood guard over his mistress’s cabin, an immobile living statue. Dominick recoiled with a grimace. “Perhaps somewhere … cleaner?” he asked, glancing at her.

  “I believe my cabin is clean enough.”

  Inside, Clarice lit the lamps, then went to the porthole and locked it open. The scent of sea and flowers filled the cabin. Last of all, she closed and latched the door to the corridor.

  “How long can I go on pretending to be my own man?” Dominick asked her, dropping into the chair. “When Shamal ordered me to take up that knife and stab Dr. Chapman to death … Spirits and Powers, Clarence, I would have done it.”

  “She has enchanted you,” Clarice said, though it was the coldest of comfort.

  “With a spell only true love may break,” Dominick said bitterly. “And still you wish me to conceal it?”

  “Dr. Chapman felt it would … amuse Shamal to think it was a secret,” Clarice said carefully, unbuckling her swordbelt and seating herself on the bed. “And that so long as she thought that, she would not display her power over you openly.”

  Dominick sighed. “I do not know if that plan will work now. We’ve tried to kill her and failed, and a thing like that tends to make a person feel unloved, as Dr. Chapman—Spirits and Powers keep him!—would surely say if he were here.”

  “He had, I suspect, some experience dealing with enemy thaumaturges. I think we should follow his advice if we possibly can.”

  “If we can,” Dominick echoed. “Dr. Chapman was well liked. I’m afraid … I’m afraid someone will try to finish the work he began. And I— And I—” He covered his face with his hands.

  Clarice leaned forward. She could not take Dominick in her arms as she yearned to, so she contented herself with patting his knee. Dominick was right; the crew was terrified of Shamal, and the new hands were an unknown quantity. Something was sure to happen. But Dr. Chapman had also been right. Shamal delighted in trickery and sadistic games. The more they occupied her, the greater the crew’s measure of safety.

  “Wear your shirt open,” she said finally. “Let the necklace be seen, but say nothing about it. The crew will draw its own conclusions. Perhaps, this once, gossip will work in our favor.”

  Dominick lowered his hands, and Clarice gave way to the impulse to stroke his hair. He was close enough to kiss. Perhaps—

  “Dominick, that matter I wanted to speak of earlier. I know this is a bad time, but you must listen, and carefully. You have called me a good friend. I—”

  A loud and unmistakable creak came from a floorboard outside the cabin. So attuned by now was Clarice to the thousand noises of Asesino under sail that it stood out sharply. She sprang to her feet and flung open the door.

  She looked out. Nothing was to be seen, but the deck lamps cast a monstrous shadow onto the wall of the figure that had retreated to the cross-passage for concealment. She stepped back and closed the door. “I think Gregale was spying on us.”

  “In God’s name why? Shamal needs but to ask and I will tell her anything I know.”

  And you must ensure he has nothing to tell her. You nearly told Dominick your secret. She is already suspicious of you—if she asks him to tell her about Mr. Clarence Swann …

  “But I suppose we must get used to this,” Dominick went on. “I never thought I would wish for Sprunt’s return, but I do. At least he was merely a villain, and not a monster. But— You had something to say, I think.”

  “No, I have forgotten.”

  “Then let us find something to do. I cannot sleep. Can you?”

  Clarice shook her head mutely. She didn’t want to be alone, either. Not after this evening.

  “I would suggest a stroll on deck, save for the fact the night watch would have questions I do not wish to answer,” Dominick said.

  “Chess, then.” Clarice opened her sea chest. She drew out the little traveling board, thinking sadly of the happy hours she had spent playing against Dr. Chapman. “For as you know already, I have no luck at cards.”

  As she did, her eye fell upon her little diary. It had been safe enough in her locked chest from Samuel Sprunt and Reverend Dobbs. She did not think a stout lock would protect it from Shamal.

  The porthole was large enough. Clarice thrust it through and flung it as far as she could. Dominick made no comment on this.

  She turned back to him, the little chessboard in her hand.

  “I am no chess player,” Dominick said, “but our only other option is for me to teach you the principles of navigation.”

  “I shall teach you chess if you teach me navigation.” Clarice sat down beside him and opened the board between them. “It is a game of war, Papa often said.”

  “Then I shall do my best to learn its lessons.”

  * * *

  At dawn, Dominick went on deck to take a sighting, and Clarice departed to the surgery. Dr. Chapman had left several medical textbooks. She doubted she could ever
bring herself to perform an amputation, but the one on the treatment of common illnesses found at sea should prove useful. She was deep in a chapter on recognizing the symptoms of voyage sickness—she did not think she could diagnose “irritability,” given their situation, but the other symptoms seemed clear enough—when Jerrold tapped at the door.

  “Cap’n said you’d be here. Are you going to do for us now?”

  “As well as I am able. Let’s hope it won’t take much.”

  Jerrold shrugged, unwilling or unable to give an answer, then said, “Breakfast.”

  * * *

  Breakfast was as much a council of war as anything else, even though Dominick did not permit anyone to speak about Shamal. Clarice noticed he’d taken her advice. The beads gleamed like drops of blood against his skin.

  “The first thing—no, the second thing—I must do is draw up a watch list,” Dominick said. “The first thing I must have is names to put on it. Geordie, Kayin, you’ve seen the most of them. What do you think?”

  “Not a sailor in the lot,” Kayin said sourly. “Colonists bound for New Hesperia, most of them. Farmers. A few skilled trades. Carpenter. Blacksmith.”

  “Better than nothing. We shall have to teach them. How many of them are ready to work?” Dominick winced a little at his unconscious echo of Captain Sprunt’s favorite question: Is he ready to work?

  “A full day’s labor?” Kayin asked. “None of them. Ready to learn the ropes, thirty. Maybe.”

  “Clarence?” Dominick asked. “What do you think?”

  “I think we must begin, as you say, with a full roster. I will take that, as I know we saw only the worst-injured yesterday. I shall ask them their professions as well, in case any of that is of use to you.”

  “Who knows?” Dominick said. “We may find a thaumaturge, or a squadron of Royal Marines.”

  “I know which I’d rather have,” Dickon said quietly. “Sailing without charts. I never thought that day would come.”

  “We’re in open sea,” Dominick said reassuringly. “And I’ve made landfall on unknown coasts before. We won’t go aground.”