The Secret's Keeper and the Heir

by Jackie McCarthy

The Captain didn’t reply. He raised a skeptical brow that did all the talking.

  “You didn’t hear what I heard!” Jas shouted, casting about wildly for ideas. “You would’ve been convinced too! And that damned Scribe isn’t telling us everything either, you said so yourself! And besides, the girl was saved in the end. And, what’s more, we may never have discovered Whyl was a spy had I not forced him out into the open by—”

  “By befriending him?” Kaille asked, still amused.

  “That’s right!” Jas yelled. The orange cat hissed at him and climbed into Kaille’s lap. Jas continued his rant, “He’d still be locked in our ship, plotting and scheming—”

  Raising a hand for silence, the Captain gave another laugh. “Apology accepted,” he said.

  Jas ran his tongue over his teeth. Reluctantly, he nodded. He looked out the window in silence for a time while Kaille petted the cat absentmindedly.

  The Captain wished he felt better about the mystery into which they’d sailed, even now that Whyl’s deception had been uncovered. Part of him could sense that their troubles had only just begun. To start, the man in the trunk was not actually Whyl. They had no idea who he might be.

  Kaille became aware that Jas had spoken, and had to ask the shiphand to repeat himself.

  “I said, what’re you going to call him?” Jas repeated, gesturing to the orange cat, which had curled into a purring ball on the Captain’s knees.

  “He’s not—” Kaille began to protest.

  “Don’t pretend like you’re not going to take him aboard,” Jas said, relishing his repossession of the higher ground. “I know you.”

  “Ziggerjon,” said the Captain without hesitation.

  Jas laughed, leaning over to scratch the cat’s head. “That’s fitting!” he said. With a sudden realization that made his happy expression fall, he added, “Oh, and I’ll clean up your cabin when we get back.”

  “Why?” Kaille demanded, suddenly at full attention. He leaned forward and the cat mewed in protest. “What did you do to my cabin?”

  “The key…you see,” said Jas, quailing under the Captain’s rage, “and I—”

  “It was right by the door, “ Kaille cried, bemoaning the destruction of his haven. “What are you, blind?”

  “Now, Eli,” Jas said in soft, desperate apology, “I—”

  “What did you do to my cabin?” the Captain demanded again.

  * * * * *

  Fenric’s low-riding carriage clattered on. The rattling was oddly metallic compared to what Rose had been getting used to, and the spring of the wheels felt different, but she didn’t ask and Fenric didn’t tell.

  “You looked quite fine on the dance floor, Benson Rose,” he said after many minutes of silence. “I was pleased to see my niece putting you through your paces.”

  “She seemed nice,” said Rose pleasantly.

  “Well,” Fenric contradicted, “that’s because you haven’t seen her these last few days.”

  Rose, who’d been going over the Scribe’s two tasks in her mind, decided she deserved an explanation. “Why’d you want me to dance with her?”

  Fenric sighed, and replied, “She complained to me that I wasn’t letting her grow up. It seemed a kindness to provide her with a handsome boy to dance with.”

  “But I’m not a boy,” Rose reminded him forcibly.

  “All the better for an over-protective guardian, wouldn’t you say?” Fenric answered with a wink.

  Rose bit her lip. She contemplated remaining silent, then decided to say, “I thought maybe you were hinting that I should kill her.”

  “Your poetic mind is laudable,” Fenric said with an amused snort, “but I’ll use no metaphors when I give you instructions. We’re not yet that well in tune. I was pleased, however, that you completed both tasks.”

  Rose nodded, paying particular notice to what Fenric had chosen not to say. Namely, he hadn’t denied that he might someday ask Rose to kill for him. Rose, who knew that this was just such a moment to give the Scribe the letter she’d found, grew tense.

  “I’ve heard strange tellings of waking trees,” Fenric added when Rose remained silent. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that.”

  Not wanting a critique of her first flailing attempts at espionage, she looked out her window and said with a shrug, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  * * * * *

  The Delahaye birthday ball was winding to a close, over half of the guests having begged their leave for the evening. Those who remained, mostly the young and in love, danced on, knowing the evening must soon end, and dreading it.

  Lucy, who held a sleepy Adeline on her knee, asked her foster sister once again, “Are you sure you don’t want to go up to bed?”

  Adeline’s droopy eyes shot back open. “No!” she cried grumpily. She jumped down and began once again to twirl tiredly, yawning all the while.

  Lucy looked over at Simone, who laughed from her seat. The eldest Delahaye began to slowly pick the flowers from her hair, arranging them into a miniature bouquet. “Tell me again what he said,” she begged, a dreamy look in her eyes.

  Lucy thought back to the handsome boy in black, trying to think of a single detail that she hadn’t already shared with Simone. There was nothing…except…

  Rising from her seat, Lucy circled a few steps away, holding the air like it was a dance partner. “I held him like this,” she said, recalling the warm weight of his hand. “And we spun like this!” With a practiced one-two-three she recreated the dance. It was a different emotion that filled her on this, the re-telling of a re-telling. The boy’s flaws were rapidly fading, leaving behind only the memory of charm and adventure. It didn’t matter to her that the boy was merely a servant to her uncle—all that really meant was that she could trust him with her life. She thought of him as she spun around the room, thinking of his strong chin, his delicate lips, and his brilliant green eyes.

  The musicians struck their final chord and Lucy bowed to her imaginary partner.

  Turning back to her audience, now on the other side of the ballroom, she found her way blocked by Emibelle and the young Master Lorey. Lucy rose from her fictional curtsy in time to genuflect to them as well. Emibelle didn’t move, but Lorey returned with a bow.

  “May I have the next dance, Lady Helayna?” he asked, stepping forward so as to block Emibelle from view.

  Lucy flushed. She’d had a lovely time reeling about the room, re-living the highlight of her evening, but she saw her actions in that moment through the eyes of a stranger. To the outsider, she knew, she must have looked desperate.

  Embarrassment eating away at her, Lucy thought she heard Emibelle’s giggle—that judgmental little giggle—and felt something within her snap.

  Turning outraged eyes upon Master Lorey, she saw him as he must be—as a new-found extension of Emibelle’s bullying arsenal. How much pleasure would it give the Delahaye daughter, after all, for Dunstan to tease Lucy’s imaginary partner by presenting a real one? It would make no difference to either of her tormentors to explain that she had only been demonstrating for Simone’s sake.

  Let him think me a child, then, Lucy exclaimed to herself, arching an eyebrow as she stared at the chestnut-colored boy. I know that his teasing is due to his fear, not mine.

  With a smile that showed her dimples, Lucy observed, “You’re only asking because you think I danced with a fairy prince. So let me set you right, he was just a boy.”

  “Not at all,” said Lorey. He drew closer and said in hushed tones, “I’d hoped to end the evening twirling about the floor with a fairy of my own.”

  Lucy, tired of being teased for this misunderstanding, narrowed her eyes. If the Master Lorey would try to belittle her by bringing the fairy world to her feet, how better to thwart his jest than by playing directly into it? She would leave it to him to be embarrassed. “Girls in Chaveneigh dance heartily, just like those from Scadia,” she said. “We fairies, however, do best to keep to our own k
ind, lest our wings be clipped and we be resigned to the dullness of life.” Dropping again to a curtsy, she added, “I thank you, but I’m not in need of a dance partner.”

  Emibelle took rushing steps to join them, and Lucy, her sense of offense still high, turned to her foster sister. She curtsied again, this time spreading her pink, ruffled dress far and wide. “Emibelle,” she said, “I thought I should display my dress for you one last time. This way, your sense of superiority will be remembered that much longer.” When Emibelle didn’t reply, Lucy continued, “That’s what you feed on, is it not, the exchange of my happiness for yours? Feed as you will, for I’ve been to the ball. I’ve danced to my heart’s content with mysterious strangers, the sisters who love me, and my own imagination all while in this hideous outfit. If I can achieve that, I don’t see what else could possibly matter, for I’ve worn much finer dresses to parties, but I’ve never had quite so much fun. It seems clear that a person’s actions are a better tell of her character than her wardrobe. Your actions, Emi, are those of fear.”

  “A person’s actions are said to speak louder than words,” said Master Lorey from alongside them. He echoed a well-known adage, but with the new-learnt conviction of a person from a foreign land.

  “Isn’t that exactly right?” Lucy asked of Emibelle, her brow arched. She stared at her foster sister confidently, locking eyes and refusing to budge. It was Emibelle who flinched first, her face turning away in discomfort and doubt.

  Satisfied, Lucy turned and nodded to Master Lorey. She took in the sight of him for the first time, her vision clear from branches or her own naivete. He was a teasing boy, a judgmental one, and an admirer of Emibelle the Bully. This told her all she needed to know of him, and her interest in the Scadian was lost. “Master Lorey, allow me to welcome you to the neighborhood,” she said. “I see you’ve already met your well-matched company, so I’ll leave you to it.”

  Turning without a look back, Lucy swept down on Adeline, lifting her in the air and spinning her around until they both collapsed, giggling.

  * * * * *

  As Rose regained the decks of the Turnagain her feet felt oddly steady upon the unsettled decks. The familiarity of her ever changing home at sea was almost a comfort after the land mines of Fenric’s plotting. She was too distracted by the Scribe’s secrecy to notice that she still wore her expensive black garb. Others aboard noticed, however, and so began her trouble.

  It was already too late when Rose noticed the sailors around her had grown expectantly quiet. She looked up from her uneasy thoughts to find herself face to face with Cricket. He smirked at her, cracking his knuckles. A group of sneering shiphands watching eagerly, as though itching for a fight.

  “Back from your party?” Cricket asked, taking in her appearance. “Don’t you look fancy? Tell me, fancy boy, did you drink wine and sham-pain?”

  Rose didn’t think any part of this merited a response and was about to go below decks to change when the red-haired bully reached out and grabbed Ikpek, who had been standing silently among the crowd. Cricket twisted the pale boy’s arms around his back, pinning them so that he winced in pain.

  “Come here, savage,” Cricked demanded as he did this, “come look at the fancy Monkey. Did you know monkeys liked to dress up?”

  Rose, not in the mood to deal with self-important shipboys, growled, “You’re hurting him, let him go.”

  “Why do you care?” asked Cricket. “He’s just a savage. It’d be a mercy to kill him.”

  Rose growled again, her voice lower, “Let him go, Cricket.”

  “You gonna come over here and make me?” the red-haired boy asked. “The Tap-Man told me what you did. Then I took care of him. I’ll make you pay too as soon as I finish with the savage.”

  Rose saw the sailors watching, eager to begin their teasing once more. She saw Cricket’s grasping fists and Ikpek’s frightened face. It all seemed absurd to her. Didn’t they realize that at any minute Fenric could put a dagger in her hand and sent her out to use it? What was a silly ship’s feud compared to that? It was time to stop the nonsense.

  Rose didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate. She closed the space between her and the shiphand with a few sudden steps and drew back her arm. With careful aim, she brought her fist crashing into Cricket’s nose. There was a crack and a pop, and the red-haired boy let go of Ikpek. He fell to the ground.

  Cricket’s surprised silence lasted only a moment as he blinked in astonishment. Then, blood cascading down his face, the former shipboy began to wail.

  The men surrounding them, calls of “Misses Monkey” stolen from their lips, looked at the sobbing boy in shock, and then at Rose, who glared seriously at each of them in turn. She dared any of them to tease her, but none did.

  Before anything else could happen, Captain Kaille and Jas, just off their carriage, tread upon the scene.

  “What’s going on here?” Kaille demanded, stunned by the silence.

  “He punched me,” Cricket shrieked, his voice high-pitched and frightened. “The Monkey punched me!”

  Rose saw the Captain’s attention shift to her, and, though she felt compelled to hide her throbbing fist behind her back, she didn’t. She knew it was wrong for the lowest ranked sailors to cause a stir. But what Cricket was doing was wrong too, and more so. Instead of hiding, she showed by her confident stance that her actions had been in the right.

  “Is this true, Benson?” asked the Captain seriously.

  “Aye,” she replied, her posture straight and dignified.

  The Captain raked his eyes over the three boys. Ikpek had fallen upon the rail, out of breath and in pain. Cricket pushed himself from the deck, his nose swelling where it was broken, but his body still hunched in aggression. Rose held her stance. She knew the Captain was good at interpreting what he saw, and rather than try to explain, she chose to trust his judgment.

  “Cricket,” said Kaille, his voice full of annoyance, “consider yourself demoted. If I hear of this behavior again you’ll be off my ship. Is that clear?”

  “But he hit me! The Monkey hit me,” Cricket wailed, raising an accusatory finger. “Demote him!”

  “You’ve been causing trouble ever since you were made shiphand,” said the Captain firmly, turning away. “I suppose you weren’t ready for the promotion. I’ll not burden you with it any longer.”

  Cricket practically trembled with anger. As the Captain and Jas turned aft, he shouted, “I saw Auk! I saw him and Nial. They were kissing!”

  Rose noticed the Captain’s expression grow dark. She almost felt his fury as he growled at the boy, “I’d think twice before you add slander to your list of crimes—”

  “It’s true!” Cricket cried, pointing at Rose. “If you trust your Monkey so much, then ask him! He saw it too!”

  Kaille’s eyes raked over Rose again, and this time she quailed under the scrutiny. “Did you?” he demanded, every ounce of humor driven from his face.

  Rose’s eyes darted over the sailors who’d gathered, but none offered her any help. She looked towards the sea and attempted to say, “I don’t know what I saw—”

  “Don’t lie to me, sailor,” Kaille warned. “Is Cricket speaking the truth?”

  Rose considered lying. Lying wasn’t hard—or rather, it had become easier. But then, the Captain so far had proven himself sensible to her attempts at spoken deception. He would know if she lied, and he would despise her for it. This, at least, was more than Rose could stand.

  With a reluctant nod, she corroborated Cricket’s story.

  The Captain stared at the three youths once more, sickened. “You, boys, get out of my sight,” he said to Cricket and the shipboys. “You—Scribe, Hawkesbury—be waiting in my cabin,” he commanded. “Hector, first unload the two carriages below, then take this note to the Jubilee along with most of the crew. We’re taking their cargo. Once it’s stowed, prepare the Turnagain to sail. The winds favor leaving this place,” he said, feeling the breeze upon his face, “and so do I.”r />
  *

  Chapter 14:

  The Truth

  * * * * *

  Belaverous is Burning

  Letters to My Dead Son

  The Unsent Correspondence of Professor Nikols

  By Anteon Nikols

  Transcribed by Sheera Spins

  *

  As I write to you, my Ashner, my withered hand shakes. Even now, in the twilight of my days, I cannot think of the night you were taken from me without anger and grief of the acutest kind.

  Your mother, to die that night as well, had prepared us the first supper we had eaten together in many months. You had just returned from a lengthy journey, and we hardly ate for all the talking. I had been selfish then, wishing for your return so I could have you once more to myself. Had I only known you would depart the mortal realm that night, I would have wished you to stay away forever, to be somewhere still, somewhere alive.

  We stayed up after Mother went to sleep, drinking wine and talking about your travels. I was terrified as you spoke of the treacherous mountain passages of the Inlands. Though I knew you were sure-footed, my son, I did not want you to fall. But you had not fallen. You made it into our Kingdom’s mountain province, and there you met the men and women who governed themselves. The people of Freemont delighted you. I could see how they would have.

  I never meant you for politics, Ashner, but the craft called to you anyhow. I had taught you all too well the structure of an oligarchy, and it chafed at your young mind. In Freemont you found what you had sought for so long: freedom. With the learned air of any proud student of the world, you then returned to make your mark upon the society that had raised you.

  Did you know that the Monarchy and Counsel of Twelve were but a hair’s breadth from collapse when you traversed the rocky mountain passages on your way back to me? Did you know that the oligarchy you sought to destroy was already on the path to destruction? I wish it had been you, my wise son, to wield to sword that ended the King’s life, for then perhaps a Republic would have risen out of the ashes of that night. Instead, the Usurper brought evil to our land and it has been only a nightterror that followed.

  You came back in time for the Feast of Belaverous. It was your favorite holiday, always full of bright colors and sparkling music. I never blamed you for liking those nights as much as you did—it was my favorite as well. The god of the spring liked you too, and gifted you with the finest of dancing partners, both pretty and energetic. We were too happy to see you again to spare you to the celebration, however, so we three stayed at home. I am tempted to wonder if this decision was the one that destroyed us, but I cannot see how it could have been. Had we gone to the celebration at the palace things would not have changed, except that I might have joined you in the afterlife, which perhaps would have been more kind.