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

by Mercedes Lackey

  Then he flung himself into the sea. Asesino rocked violently, the ice holding her cracking with sharp gunshot sounds. Dominick slipped and clawed at the ice-covered deck, leaving bloody smears against wood and ice as he fought to get the two of them to safety.

  The seething mass of serpents rose up under Asesino, and she jerked and thrashed like a rat caught in the jaws of some gigantic terrier as she fell from one coil to the next. Clarice slid the length of the canted ice-covered deck and hit the afterdeck housing with a bruising thump. A moment later, Dominick landed against her. She could hear screams from the men below, and imagination brought her a lightning image of the stove and ovens spilling their flaming contents across the decks.

  The wind began to rise. The sky went dark. Dominick was shouting something she could not hear, clinging to her desperately as Asesino was flung at the ring of pillars. Ice sprayed across the deck like shrapnel, and then they were through.

  The prow crashed back into the icy sea, and the gale struck full force. The sails filled with a crack, and the timbers sang in protest. Rain, sleet, and hail struck with stunning force. Balls of ice made drumming sounds against the deck, audible only for an instant until the sound was drowned in the scream of the wind through the rigging.

  Waves crashed over the deck as Asesino, full rigged and helpless, was seized by the storm. The deck tilted sideways, nearly vertical, and the portside rail sank below the surface of the sea. A moment later the ship was flung back the other way.

  Dominick clawed his way along the railing, dragging Clarice with him. Water poured across the deck and down through the hatches. Clarice was drenched, blinded, deafened, her hands so numb she could not tell whether she clung to Dominick or not. She shouted his name and could not hear the sound of her own voice.

  They reached one of the masts and clung to it desperately. Dominick sawed one handed at a drum-taut line. She felt a length of rope being passed around her body. He is tying us to the mast, she thought dazedly.

  But no. Not both of them. Through salt-blinded eyes, she saw Dominick move away from her and begin to climb the rigging. She gasped and coughed, gagging on seawater, struggling against the rope that bound her.

  Then Kayin appeared, dragging himself across the wildly pitching deck. He was not alone. Impossible as it seemed, the crew of Asesino was rallying. They fought their way across the deck, armed with axes and knives. Clarice watched in numb incomprehension until the first of the great sails ripped free, carried away by the tempest.

  With the sails gone, we have a chance.

  * * *

  She did not know how long it was before she felt a body pressed against hers. She struggled dazedly to cling to the mast until Kayin and Dominick pulled her away.

  “Clarice! Clarice!” Dominick had to shout to be heard over the shriek of the wind. “Come below!”

  We’ve won, she thought giddily, as the three of them staggered to the ladder.

  * * *

  The storm blew for three days. Clarice manned the pumps beside every able-bodied man left aboard. She cut the laces of her corset so she could work, tore the sleeves from her shirt to bandage her bleeding hands, pushed her body past the limit of its endurance. Dominick pushed himself harder than anyone else, taking his turn at the pumps, moving among the crew speaking words of encouragement.

  “A miracle has brought us this far, Clarice,” he said. “We must provide the rest of the miracle ourselves.”

  “Not a miracle,” she answered. “Gregale.”

  “Next time I see him, I shall have a word about his taste in rescues.”

  She worked the pump until her strength gave out, dropped to the deck for a too-brief rest, then returned to the work again. It was all they could do now: try to pump the water out faster than it came in. She didn’t know whether the storm was of Gregale’s making, or something he couldn’t prevent, or if he simply hadn’t cared once he’d been freed. And she was too exhausted to care.

  * * *

  “Wake up.” Dominick was shaking her. “Wake up. We’re alive. And … Shamal told the truth.”

  The name brought Clarice instantly awake. “She’s here?” Clarice sat up quickly. Every muscle screamed in protest, and she groaned, squinting at her surroundings. All around her, the crew lay as if dead, but as she watched, she saw a body move in sleep and heard a sudden racking snore. The pumps stood silent. Everything was silent. Asesino was rocking gently, as if at anchor, and Clarice realized she was actually warm for the first time in days.

  “Still dead,” Dominick said. “But … come and see.”

  “Shamal told the truth?” Clarice said groggily. “About what?”

  “Come and see.”

  He lifted her to her feet. She staggered to the nearest keg and plunged the tankard into it, drinking thirstily. The bandages on her hands were frayed and grimy, spotted with blood where blisters had burst. Her hair clung stickily to her face like seaweed. She winced as she raised her hands to her face to push it back. She turned back to Dominick.

  “We’re alive,” she said hoarsely. On aching, unsteady legs she followed him to the ladder.

  “The storm blew out last night. At that point even I didn’t care what happened next. But it’s morning now.”

  It was just after dawn. The sky was a stainless tropical blue, and the wind was soft and warm. In daylight Asesino looked even more like a wreck—masts sheered away, railings splintered, and even hatches gone. But Clarice took all that in with one brief glance because of something even more important than the precarious state of Asesino.

  They were surrounded by ships.

  12

  THE GRAVEYARD OF LOST SHIPS

  SOME, LIKE Asesino herself, were mastless and storm racked. Some foundered barely above the waterline. Some looked nearly whole.

  All were deserted.

  “But what is this place?” Clarice asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “And how did all these ships get here?”

  “A legend.” Dominick’s voice was as low as her own. “The Graveyard of Lost Ships.”

  “A graveyard?” For a moment Clarice wondered if this was Shamal’s last cruel trick. “We aren’t … dead … are we?”

  “Different sort of graveyard.” Dominick leaned over the rail to peer down into the water. “No spirits in it—and no magic, either. Just wind and currents. See, sometimes a ship gets lost—in a storm, like we did. She drifts into a place where there’s no wind. And there she stays.”

  “One, maybe,” Clarice said dubiously. “Or two, perhaps. There must be hundreds here.”

  “And more down to Bowling Green. Look there.” He pointed.

  The water was clear enough that Clarice could see, down below, the remains of another ship, its shape blurred with streamers of green.

  “So,” Dominick went on, “ships start to all collect in the same place. And after a while there’s so many ships together in one spot, and some of them half-sunk, that they attract more. That fine lady, over there, say. I’ll wager you she hasn’t been under sail in a century, maybe more.”

  “But—” Clarice wasn’t sure Dominick’s explanation made any sense, though he seemed to be perfectly satisfied with it. “Are we lost?” She took a step closer to him.

  Dominick put an arm around her shoulders. “I will know tonight, should the sky remain clear. Without instruments I cannot know to any degree of accuracy, but…”

  “But we are alive, and here—and free!” Clarice was only now beginning to believe it. To believe in it—freedom and safety after so long a time spent passing from one disaster to the next. “We’re safe.”

  Dominick laughed a little. “Safer than we were, though how safe we are I cannot say. We must have supplies—there are repairs to make—we must search the ship…”

  “We’re safe,” Clarice said insistently. “Safe! And very very damp,” she added with a rueful laugh.

  “That, at least, is a matter easily cured. If we have nothing else, we have sun.” He stripped off
his shirt and spread it over the rail, then sat down on the deck. “I cannot say if your boots will survive, but I can say it is better to have them off than on.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Clarice grumbled. She fumbled with the buttons on her vest and pulled it free. There was a bright flash—her brooch was still pinned into the lining. She fumbled it free and pinned it to the ragged remains of her shirt. By the time she’d struggled out of her boots and her stockings, her shirt was nearly dry. She wiggled her toes, relishing the feel of warmth.

  It felt so strange to her to be with him without secrets between them, and no more enemies to fight. When he took her hand to help her to her feet, it startled her for a moment, but he smiled at her as if the two of them shared a secret joke, and Clarice smiled back. At last, for the first time, this was something they could do. Openly. Without fear.

  “Come on,” he said. “We should rouse everyone and get them up on deck where it’s warmer.”

  And find out who has survived.

  * * *

  Twenty-two souls, of the ninety-odd who had sailed from Dorado, had survived. Some had been swept overboard. Some had been trapped below and drowned. Only ten of Asesino’s original crew had survived. Kayin, Geordie, Jerrold, and Mr. Emerson were among the survivors.

  Dickon Greenwell was not.

  “He died in the storm,” Dominick said quietly. “He went forward to lash the helm. He saved us all.”

  “I am sorry,” Clarice said quietly. “He was a good man.”

  “They were all good men.”

  By late that morning the survivors had searched the ship and had brought up the bodies of the dead. All were consigned, with as much ceremony as Asesino’s weary and injured crew could muster, to the sea.

  The galley was a total loss—most of the chimney was gone—but most of the provisions in the hold, including their precious casks of drinking water, had survived. Mr. Emerson built a fire on deck, and by midday the survivors were eating their first hot meal in many days.

  * * *

  “What now?” Clarice asked. It seemed she had been asking that question for longer than she wanted to remember. What now? What next? Each time, lives and fates had depended on the answer.

  “Now we eat, and rest,” Dominick said, sitting down beside her and offering her the bowl he held. It held a pottage of salt beef and potatoes. Clarice dipped her hand into it and liberated a chunk of potato. She was sure she’d never tasted anything so delicious in her life. “I do not think any of us is good for much else today.”

  “And then?”

  “Wait for the sky to grow dark. So we can find out where we are. Find something we can sail home in—if home is to be found.” Dominick pitched his voice low. “Not Asesino. Even if she were whole, we have not enough crew to man her.”

  And then? But Clarice did not want to ask that question just yet. She knew the important part of the answer already.

  Whatever came next, she and Dominick would face it together.

  * * *

  And so, the survivors made a castaway’s holiday on the deck of their ruined ship and awaited the appearance of the stars, which would truly tell their fate. Bottles were passed about, and songs were sung. Every now and then a few of the men would go scavenging about the ship, bringing their finds up on deck to dry. Soon the main deck was covered with mattresses and blankets; even a few items from Shamal’s cabin had found their way topside. Clarice lay dozing on a blanket. She’d received a few curious looks—everyone knew she was a woman now, after all—but in general, the crew seemed to feel she was one of them.

  As do I, she thought. Not Princess Clarice of Swansgaarde, not Clarence Swann of nowhere in particular. Just … Clarice, now.

  It was enough. It was more than she’d had.

  * * *

  She woke from her doze when Dominick moved.

  The sun had set, and the evening breeze was cool. A few of the ship’s lanterns had survived, miraculously intact, and were set about the deck in whatever places could hold them. By their light she could see Kayin and Miles Oliver already standing in the center of the deck.

  “Kayin!” Miles said. “I see—”

  “We all know what you see, young fellow,” Mr. Emerson said sharply. “It’s for the cap’n to announce it.”

  “Captain of very little, Mr. Emerson, but I thank you regardless.” Dominick walked to the center of the deck.

  All around them, the crew—for those who had been sleeping had clearly been awakened to view the night sky—looked heavenward. So did Clarice. The stars meant nothing to her, though she knew they must to anyone who lived by the sea. If they meant anything at all …

  But they must, for if they had not, the mood of the men would be very different. Familiar stars, then. That was good. But it was Dominick who must sail them home.

  “There is the Cross, and there the Dragon’s Tail. And so this is the Hispalidean Sea—as you all know,” Dominick said, turning to face his audience. “We do not have clock or compass, but men sailed long before such were invented! Tomorrow I shall make a cross-staff, and with a few sightings, I shall know precisely where we are. And surely, in all of this, we can find something to sail home in?”

  “That we can, Captain!” Kayin said.

  “If it’s a raft we build, why, I’ll drive the nails myself!” Duff Evans announced.

  “And sail home!” Geordie cried.

  “Home!” Jerrold shouted, and soon everyone was shouting that single word, over and over, like shipwrecked men sighting land at last.

  Home.

  * * *

  But before they could sail home, they must have a ship.

  “I’m not really sure what we’re looking for,” Clarice said.

  She and Kayin were standing on the deck of a ship two away from Asesino, one of the few they could reach without a boat. The galleon was riding high in the water—which meant it was seaworthy—but it was far too large for their purposes.

  “Anything we can use, Miss Clarice,” Kayin answered. They’d already found one of the things they needed most—the captain’s gig was on deck and intact. To lower it into the water would require ropes and pulleys to be brought from Asesino, and they’d need to gather the whole crew together to winch it down. “It’s salvage, you know. Everything here is free to anyone who can take it.”

  “I wonder why pirates waste their time attacking shipping, in that case, if all this is here for the taking.”

  Kayin grinned at her. “Folk have been looking for the Graveyard of Lost Ships since Cap’n Ulysses sailed home from Troy.”

  She was kept from pursuing her argument by Jerrold’s return.

  “Kayin, there’s something in the hold I think you need to see.” Jerrold held out his palm, holding something round and gold. A brooch. Sunlight struck green fire from the jewel in the center and turned the diamonds around the edge into a blaze of light. “The hold’s full of this stuff. Chests and chests of it!”

  * * *

  Shamal said we would sail waters filled with treasure enough to make a thousand men rich as kings. She might have been telling the truth about that icy temple; we will never know. This is enough truth for us.

  The three of them stood in the hold. Light filtered down from a hole in the decks above—enough that the lantern Jerrold held wasn’t necessary. Enough to show them broken chests spilling gold coins and jewelry across the deck.

  It is like something out of a storybook, Clarice thought numbly. The treasure room at Castle Swansgaarde seemed suddenly paltry by comparison. She picked up a rope of pearls. The string broke even as she lifted it, but the clasp that had once held them was set with a sapphire as large as her thumbnail.

  “There’s tons of it,” Jerrold said, sounding bewildered.

  “Where did it all come from?” Clarice asked.

  “Everywhere.” Kayin picked up an ornate chalice that had surely been meant to decorate some church’s altar. “Might have been an Iberian treasure ship. Or a pirate. Whiche
ver it was, it’s our fortune, true and certain.” He tossed the chalice back into the heap from which he’d taken it.

  “You don’t sound very happy about it,” Clarice observed.

  Kayin made a face. “Hard enough to get everyone to work now. Show them treasure, and they’ll go mad drunk on it.”

  “We could swear to keep it secret,” Jerrold said tentatively.

  Clarice shook her head. “Secrets among us would be a very bad idea, I think. And what if someone finds treasure aboard another ship? No. We shall tell Dominick when we get back, and we shall all make a pact: When we sail from here, we will carry as much treasure with us as we can. And we will divide it equally among us all.”

  “Good.” Kayin nodded in satisfaction. “And I’ll remind those lubbers that diamonds and suchlike may dazzle, but”—he plucked the brooch from Jerrold’s hand and tossed it back into one of the piles—“gold coins spend better with less history to ’em.”

  * * *

  As Clarice had suspected, theirs was not the only ship that had been carrying a cargo of treasure. Dominick’s search party had found much the same, and as Kayin said, everyone, even the former prisoners, were giddy with the thought of such wealth.

  “Although the ship’s boat is far more useful in our present circumstances,” Clarice said.

  “All things considered,” Dominick agreed. “I hope she’s sound. I want to take a look at that brigantine I spotted today.”

  The two-masted brigantine was too far away to reach except by boat. She’d taken on a lot of water, but Dominick thought she looked sound enough, and if they could row one of the pumps over to her, they could pump her dry and caulk her leaks. Then it would be a matter of contriving enough in the way of sails to be able to … sail her. That news had begun the evening meal, though even the knowledge that they could escape the Graveyard of Lost Ships was eclipsed by the discovery of the treasure that it held. The mood was festive: not only were they going home, they were going home as rich men.

  As good as the promise of wealth was the promise of justice. Clarice remembered Dr. Chapman’s conviction that the Royal Navy had thaumaturges powerful enough to break Dorado’s enchantments. And now that Shamal was not there to renew them, with her dead, all that protected Dorado was the spells she—or someone—had already woven upon it.