Scimitar War

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Your Majesty.” Cynthia tried to drop to one knee, but the leg irons nearly tripped her, so she settled for a curtsey. She glanced over and saw that Feldrin had chosen to bow low, rather than struggle to one knee with his peg leg. Upton stepped forward with a bow.

  “Your Majesty, may I present to you Cynth—”

  “Sire!”

  Steel sang free from a scabbard, and Cynthia had only time enough to gasp before the woman in black held a blade an inch from her throat. She swallowed and stared at the sword, her own terrified reflection blinking back at her from the lustrous surface. She had never seen its like before: single-edged and slightly curved, longer than a cutlass but narrower, the metal glistening black with a wavy design that was either etched or intrinsic to the metal itself.

  “She is hiding something in the blanket. A creature,” the woman said, her voice emotionless.

  Cynthia opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the emperor’s master of security.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I should have predicted this difficulty. There is no danger.” He stepped forward, but the dark blade did not move at his assurance. “The seamage has a familiar, a seasprite. My people have researched these creatures, and they are deemed harmless, though often a nuisance.”

  “Bring it out,” the woman commanded without a glance toward either Master Upton or the emperor. The sovereign remained silent, his mouth pursed in calm interest, evidently trusting his bodyguard’s judgment in this. “Make it show itself.”

  “Mouse,” Cynthia whispered, tearing her eyes away from the blade and pulling back the swaddling blanket. “Mouse, come out very slowly, and no nonsense.”

  The little sprite peeked out, and his eyes nearly popped from their sockets at the sight of the blade. He struggled out of the covers and climbed up onto her shoulder, disheveled from his confinement within the blanket. His wings were crumpled, and he fluttered them briefly to straighten them out, his eyes never leaving the sword.

  “Sire, I have no experience with such a creature,” the sword-wielding woman said, seeming to dismiss Upton’s claims as irrelevant. “I cannot say whether it is a threat or not.”

  “Please, Your Majesty.” Cynthia knew she should not have spoken without being asked, but she could not stay mute with Mouse’s life in the balance. “Mouse is harmless. He’s not a familiar. Seasprites are just drawn to sea magic. He’s been with my family for generations.”

  “We will trust Master Upton’s assessment on this for now,” the emperor said. His voice was bereft of emotion; not cold, exactly, but utterly calm, relaxed. Cynthia hoped that was a good sign. “Lower your sword, Lady von Camwynn, but remain where you are. Your…services will be necessary in a moment. If the sprite makes a threatening move or takes flight, kill it.”

  “Yes, Sire.” The woman lowered her sword, but did not step back or change her stance.

  Cynthia wondered what services the woman might provide other than cutting, slashing or impaling. She looked down at Mouse and whispered, “You hear that, Mouse? No nonsense!”

  Mouse nodded and made a face, but tucked in close to her neck, eyeing the sword contemptuously. Though the sprite was normally more than a match for any swordsman, this particular swordswoman, and this particular sword, seemed different. They frightened her.

  “As I was saying, Your Majesty,” Upton continued as he glanced toward the emperor’s bodyguard in seeming amusement, “may I present Cynthia Flaxal Brelak, Seamage of the Shattered Isles, and her husband, Feldrin Brelak, captain of the merchant schooner Orin’s Pride.” He bowed to the emperor and backed away.

  The emperor looked at Cynthia and Feldrin for a long moment. Beside him, the young man—the crown prince, Cynthia realized—fidgeted minutely, though he remained attentive. Finally, the emperor broke the silence.

  “We have received many missives, both from you and on your behalf, Mistress Flaxal Brelak. Frankly, We find much of it difficult to believe.” He paused, and his eyes bored into hers. “We are greatly troubled by the loss of our flagship and the Fire Drake, and as you have seen, so is the populace of this city. Whether intentionally treasonous or not, the actions of you or those in your charge resulted in the loss of those ships and the deaths of all aboard. The populace of Tsing demands retribution for those deaths, and We agree. Speak now, and defend yourself if you can.”

  Cynthia tried to speak, but found her mouth too dry to form words. She cleared her throat, looked down, then back up into the emperor’s eyes; they were as blank as his tone. “I don’t deny my failure to predict the actions of the young man, Edan, Your Majesty. Perhaps I shouldn’t have agreed to help him become a pyromage in the first place. Elemental mages usually ascend to their powers as children and receive careful training. Edan was older, and, I assumed, more mature. I was wrong, and he panicked.” She swallowed, took a deep breath and continued. “I also failed to predict the actions of the merfolk. I tried to stop their attack, and was knocked unconscious. I now know that the entire thing was a ploy by a few rogue mer to steal my baby. It was all a plot from the beginning, and I didn’t see it. I failed, and people died, more than just those on the Clairissa and Fire Drake. But, Your Majesty, I have never acted to subvert or oppose the Tsing Empire.”

  “So We have read in your letters, but We have been unable to determine the truth of your claims. Until now.” The emperor of Tsing shifted in his seat and narrowed his eyes, then stared into the eyes of each person present. “What is about to transpire in this room will not be spoken of anywhere to anyone, not even amongst yourselves, under penalty of death. That applies to everyone.” He cast a quick glance to the prince, and the young man bowed stiffly, averting his eyes from his father’s. The emperor turned back to his bodyguard. “Lady von Camwynn, please proceed.”

  “Yes, Sire.” The bodyguard fixed Cynthia with her eyes and said, “Hold perfectly still.”

  The dark blade rose slowly toward Cynthia’s face, and she flinched, despite the warning. But the edge of the blade was turned away, and only the smooth metal touched her neck. She froze with the shock of it. Expecting cold metal, the warm caress was startling enough, but the true alarm came from the sudden presence she felt, as if someone called her name inside her head. The call echoed, reverberating until her very thoughts buzzed with it.

  “Cynthia Flaxal Brelak. Do you swear that all you have said today, and that all you have sent to the emperor in account of your actions, is the truth?”

  For a moment Cynthia was unsure who had spoken. The voice was feminine, but she realized that von Camwynn’s lips had not moved. The sword had spoken in her mind.

  “I…swear,” she said, barely loud enough for her own ears to hear. The echo intensified to a crashing crescendo that, while not painful, nearly overwhelmed her. Just before Cynthia felt that she might faint, the echo burst like a soap bubble, and silence fell upon her mind. The sword had been pulled away.

  “She speaks the truth, Sire,” von Camwynn said, taking a step back from Cynthia and lowering the weapon.

  “Very well.” The emperor sounded almost disappointed. “It might have been simpler if you had been a traitor, you know. A public execution would have satisfied the populace, whereas a prison sentence and forfeiture of property probably will not.”

  “Prison! But Majesty, I—”

  “Silence.”

  The sovereign’s voice was calm, but carried such power that Cynthia rocked back on her heels. He rose from his seat and stepped slowly around the desk. His son followed, his face more readable, less a mask of propriety than that of the father. Cynthia did not like what she saw there. The emperor stopped before her, and for the first time since they had entered the room, his temper surfaced in his eyes.

  “You may not be a traitor, Cynthia Flaxal Brelak, but by your own admission you are indirectly responsible for a great many deaths. You have prof
essed your innocence, but you are guilty of one thing that We cannot forgive. With power comes responsibility and the need of good judgment. Your judgment has been poor, and your power ill-directed.”

  He stared at her as if waiting for an answer, but she dared not provoke his anger. She wanted to say a thousand things, to justify her actions or tout her accomplishments, but she knew that nothing would help. All her attempts to bring peace had failed; it was time to pay for that failure. She dropped her eyes and prayed silently to Odea.

  “Cynthia Flaxal Brelak, We sentence you to ten years in the imperial prison. Your ships, and any lands or wealth you claim, are forfeit, to be impounded by the Empire of Tsing or sold at auction. The proceeds of such sale will go to the families of those who died aboard Clairissa and Fire Drake. Your son…”

  He paused, and Cynthia’s head shot up. Surely he would not take her son away! She fought to breathe as tears spilled down her cheeks, a voiceless plea.

  “Your son will become a ward of the Empire of Tsing until the time of your release. Then, if he so wishes, he will be returned to your custody.”

  Cynthia choked out a sob and bowed her head. He could take her possessions, her home, even her ships, but she couldn’t live if he took her son. She blinked tears away and looked down into Kloe’s eyes. Ten years…Would he even remember her?

  “Watch over Kloe, Mouse,” she whispered so softly that only sprite ears could have heard. She felt a reassuring pat on her neck and a tug on her ear. Mouse would stay with Kloe until he claimed her as his mother…or not.

  “Feldrin Brelak.”

  The emperor’s voice startled Cynthia. She had forgotten that Feldrin might also be sentenced for his part in this.

  “Yer Majesty,” Feldrin replied. Cynthia turned to see him standing tall and straight, a pillar of strength; her strength. His voice was steady and his face calm, without a hint of the temper she knew he must be suppressing.

  “You are aware, no doubt, that a sea captain is responsible for the actions of all persons under his command, are you not?”

  “I am, Yer Majesty.”

  “Very well. The ship Orin’s Pride, with you as her commander, fired upon an imperial ship. This is, regardless of intent, an act of treason.”

  Cynthia gasped, her heart faltering in her chest. Surely not…

  “Though the shot itself did no harm, and the person who fired the shot was a stowaway and not under your command, the pyromage was under your command, and the results of his actions were catastrophic.” The emperor paused, and Cynthia’s heart pounded loud in her throat. “Feldrin Brelak, your ship will be hunted down and impounded. All monies and property you have will be confiscated by the Empire of Tsing. And one month hence you will be taken to a place of execution, and your life will be ended.”

  “Yer Majesty,” Feldrin said in that deep, stoic voice Cynthia had fallen in love with.

  I did this, she realized, her heart shattering into a million bleeding pieces. Feldrin had wanted to sail away on Orin’s Pride and live in exile, intent only on keeping their family together. But she had convinced him to come with her to Tsing. She had killed him, the only man she had ever loved. He was going to die, and it would be on her hands.

  “Don’t worry, lass,” he said, looking at her with those lustrous dark eyes and that lopsided grin. “It’s not yer fault.”

  But it was her fault, and that surety felt like a spear thrust through her chest. A guttural cry escaped her throat as her world collapsed and the room went gray. Cynthia felt herself falling. She tried to turn, to protect Kloe, but the polished marble floor kissed her temple right where the stone had struck earlier. Pain exploded in her head, but it paled against the agony in her heart. Her ears rang with Kloe’s cries as darkness enveloped her. Cynthia didn’t even feel it when they took Kloe away from her.

  Chapter 22

  Consequences

  Orin’s Pride cut a slow, careful line to windward, her headway just enough to keep steerage as she maneuvered along the approach to the tiny, rock-shrouded harbor of Ghelfan’s home port. Dura’s gravelly contralto called out directions, while Chula paced and bit his nails. It was only practical; this had been Dura’s home, and she knew the channel like her tongue knew her teeth.

  Chula had gnawed every fingernail he had down to the quick, but not because he didn’t trust Dura. Even the nerve-wracking sail from Vulture Isle should not have bothered him—he knew every cut and reef in the archipelago—but beating to windward and cutting back to avoid interception by imperial warships had left him a sleepless wreck. The loss of Peggy’s Dream had badly undermined his confidence, and despite Paska’s assurance that the crew had not blamed him, he remained doubtful of his own judgment.

  “Take a tack ta port, Chula!” Dura barked, pointing up at the windward cliffs that made the fluky breeze even more fluky. “The wind funnelin’ through that gap there’ll usually let ya bear up and sail through close-hauled.”

  “T’ank’e Dura,” Chula said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Horace, tack de ship, and have a care not ta be puttin’ her in irons, or we’re buggered but good!” He glanced to leeward and gritted his teeth. He knew a wreath of rocks lined the channel behind them, but he couldn’t see a thing with the dark water and darker rocks beneath. He was used to the crystal-clear waters farther south, where each coral head was plainly visible, and a man in the forechains could count starfish on the sandy bottom at forty feet.

  “Aye, Captain!” Horace said with an easy grin.

  The first mate’s off-hand manner soothed Chula’s nerves. He listened as Horace barked orders to Paska, who relayed them to the crew with her own embellishments. The helmsman turned the ship, and the headsails backfilled, drawing the Pride’s bow downwind. The ship tacked smoothly, and just as the last sheet was adjusted, a gust from the gap in the cliffs filled her sails. Without a command, the crew responded, and the schooner sailed smartly between the looming cliffs into the inner harbor. Chula released the breath he had been holding.

  “If ya bring her upwind,” Dura said, “Rella’ll have tenders out in two shakes ta take us inta the dock.”

  Dura, too, had been brooding since their departure from Vulture Isle, and Chula knew why: the news of Ghelfan’s death would not be easy to deliver. Despite the horrific news, he hoped they would agree to repair Orin’s Pride. They had been pumping the schooner’s bilge three times a day, and Chula feared that her seams were in dire straits. Captain Brelak had left plenty of money in the strongbox for repairs, so cost was not an issue.

  “Bring her up when we be nearin’ de pier, Horace,” he ordered. “No point in makin’ ‘em work too hard.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Tenders were already headed toward them, so Dura waved and gestured, and they nosed alongside. The Pride’s crew threw out lines, and rigged bumpers along the port side as the small boats pushed the ship expertly to the pier. They tossed lines over to the dock crew, and the bumpers squeaked as they were snubbed tight against the hard stone.

  Chula’s smile of satisfaction at the neat landing flagged as he considered Dura. She stood before the gangplank, glaring at it. “Dura, you want me dere while you have a word wit’ de yard masta’?”

  “Nah,” the dwarf said. Her trepidation was clear in her voice, and he could see the muscles bunching at her jaw. “Let me break the news to ‘em alone.”

  Dura crossed the gangplank and raised a hand in greeting as she strode toward a tall, blonde woman who approached with a smile. Chula watched as Dura spoke, her normally loud voice hushed. The color drained from the woman’s face, and her smile disintegrated. Chula felt a hand grasp his own and turned to see Paska also watching, her face dire. They had all faced similar news lately; it was never easy. Even little Koybur sat silent on her hip, sucking on his fingers.

  After a minute of quiet conversation, Dura wa
ved, and Chula strode onto the pier. Paska released his hand, but followed close; since his return from Akrotia, they had rarely left each other’s sides.

  “This is Rella, the yard mistress here.” Dura said by way of introduction. “Rella, this is Chula, captain o’ Orin’s Pride while Captain Brelak and Mistress Flaxal go up ta Tsing ta kiss the emperor’s royal arse. We’d a been here sooner, but we had to do a bit of fancy dodgin’ to avoid the warships around Plume Isle.”

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain,” Rella gave a short nod to Chula, then turned back to Dura, “but, I don’t understand. The captain of the Lady Belle didn’t mention any warships being at Plume Isle.”

  “Never seen no ship called the Lady Belle at Plume,” Dura said with a furrowed brow.

  “The captain said he stopped there and spoke with Lady Camilla.”

  “If they stopped by before the pirate attack, I’d a seen ‘em. And nobody’s talked with Camilla after, either. She’s been…indisposed.”

  “Pirate attack?” Rella’s eyes widened.

  Dura gave a brief and painful account of the attack and aftermath on Plume Isle, and Rella’s eyes grew even wider.

  “The Lady Belle stopped by here for a refit,” Rella said, her face pinched in confusion. “Her captain, a fellow named Johns Torek, said that Lady Camilla had recommended he come here.”

  “Torek!” Paska shoved up to the yard mistress. “Dis Lady Belle a two-masted, t’ree-yard square rig wit’ a clubfoot fore-staysail an’ a high-aspect flyin’ jib, painted wit’ faded gold on her rail?”

  “Yes, that’s the ship, though she looks different now.” Rella looked more suspicious than confused now. “How do you know it?”

  “Dat’s de Cutthroat!” Paska was shaking. Chula could not remember when he had seen her so angry. “De man’s name is Parek, and he’s a bloody pirate! But what’s he doin’ here?”