War and Wind

by Alex Lidell

  “Belay that order!” shouts another voice before the crew manages a single step. Rima.

  My chest fills with dread as I turn to see what the captain will do now. Kederic takes his glass back and finds somewhere else to be.

  Rima surveys the deck with distaste that deepens as his gaze finds Domenic’s. “What are you about, Mr. Dana?” he demands.

  “Flag signals!” the lookout shouts from the mast before Domenic can reply.

  Kazzik pulls a signals book from its shelf and flips it open, but we don’t have time for this.

  “Give me your glass,” I whisper to Domenic. “It’s an Ashing ship. Please. Give me your glass.”

  Domenic hesitates a moment, but lets the glass swing off his back.

  Swiping the glass from his hand, I train it on the Sparrow’s mast. “She is signaling with Ashing’s code, not the League’s,” I call, reading the flags as they fly up the mast. The Sparrow must have left the Ardent Ocean in great hurry, without taking the League book with her. “Urgent message. Attack imminent.”

  Rima’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, pressing painfully into my sore back. “Yes, yes, thank you,” he says quietly. “That is quite sufficient, however. I do not need you upsetting my crew with guessed readings and out-of-context messages.” His other hand pulls the glass from mine. “Mr. Dana, have the lookout acknowledge the signal and instruct the Sparrow to cease broadcasting dirty laundry for the world to hear. I shall meet with her as soon as distance permits.”

  No. I suck in a breath.

  Rima’s gaze flickers back to me. “Get her belowdecks, Mr. Dana. I believe our young sailor here has spoken out of turn enough for one day and needs not be tempted into further transgression.”

  My lips pull back in a snarl.

  “Ash.” Dana reaches for my shoulder but his eyes meet mine, and he pulls back, showing me his palm. “We need to go. Now.”

  I stare at him before moving. You are a dog trotting at your master’s heels, my gaze tells him.

  Do as you are told, replies his.

  I follow Domenic’s silent silhouette down to the officer’s gunroom. The long table has rosters and supply lists on it, along with clean paper and ink. He nods toward the paperwork. “Make two copies of each.”

  The anger simmering inside threatens to consume what shreds of self-control I have left. “The Sparrow is risking her life to warn us of an imminent attack.”

  “I am aware.” Domenic’s voice is cold, but it’s coming through clenched teeth. “There is nothing to be done about the captain’s orders just now.”

  My nostrils flare, blood boiling beneath my skin. I’m sick of this. Of a captain ruled only by his cowardice and his wallet. Of Domenic’s dogged obedience. Of my bloody impotence. “You’ve not the mettle to do anything, Domenic.”

  Silence.

  And then the stone in his gaze shatters. “And what would you do, Princess?” he snarls viciously. “Run away? Or howl and cry and beg the Aurora to action? Or maybe it will be your great strength and fearless work aloft that will lead the entire Lyron League to glory and triumph.”

  I recoil as if burned. Worse than burned. But then I lean toward Domenic and bare my teeth. I want to hurt him. Hurt him so badly he will feel it for days. Weeks. A lifetime. “It’s no wonder Daddy thinks nothing of throwing your name on gambling tabs. To be counted as a man in your own right, you’d need a mind and will of your own.”

  His hands curl into fists, and a vein along the side of his neck pulses, fast and hard and angry.

  “You want to strike me again?” I ask, getting to my feet and spreading my arms before him. “Go ahead. What will it be this time? Will you split my lip or bloody my back? You’re good at that much, so might as well play to your strength.”

  He does strike, but not me. Domenic’s fist hits the bulkhead. Without waiting for my reply, Domenic turns on his heel and leaves.

  I jerk as the door slams in Domenic’s wake. Numbly, I walk to the table, pull out a chair, and fling the whole paper pile onto the deck.

  A lifetime passes until the bellowed orders to back sail finally echo across the ship. I feel the Aurora drop her speed. Then the ship rocks lightly as a boat is lowered over the side, and the last of my hopes vanishes. The Sparrow’s officers won’t even be invited aboard to deliver their news—Rima will be heading there instead. And I trust his reporting as much as I believe in his benevolence.

  My chest is stone heavy as all hands assemble on deck two hours later. Sparrow is sailing away, her sails filled. The Sparrow’s sudden appearance and quick departure have made an impression. The hands are as volatile as gunpowder, small bits occasionally exploding in sharp remarks and impulsive assaults on ship’s boys and smaller hands. In their anxiety, the crew is reverting back to their primal form.

  If the Aurora ever truly deviated from it.

  “All hands present, sir,” Domenic says when the decks swarm with sailors and the marines line the poop deck in a crisp black line. He doesn’t look at me. No, he moves as if he has not a bother in the world. Like he always does.

  “Very good.” Rima holds up his hands and smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Dana.”

  Domenic nods and steps back.

  Rima looks around slowly. “You’ve no doubt noted the dramatic arrival of the Ashing sloop Sparrow,” he says with the tiniest hint of mockery in his voice. “With the canvas she carried, I half expected to see a Republic squadron on her stern. Didn’t you?”

  It’s a rhetorical question, but many of the hands nod, and I sense a small exhale of relief from the men around me. This routine is familiar to them, and Rima’s smile is encouraging. Whatever else he is, whichever breed of corruption and cowardliness lives inside him, Captain Rima is the master of his crew.

  “There was no Tirik squadron, of course,” Rima says ruefully. “No squadron, no frigate, not even a fishing boat. The Ashing fleet, superb seamen as it has, does have its showmanship flair. We saw it when Faithful, the infamous Ashing flagship, sank thanks to its own glory seeking. When the Ashing king proclaimed its fleet the mightiest in the League only to fold before the Republic’s assault. And we saw it now, when a little dispatch ship raised havoc in an attempt to assert the importance of its own meager existence.”

  Rima pauses, scanning the crowd with his gaze, which lingers on my face a heartbeat longer than necessary.

  I know that Rima is walking all over Ashing on purpose and that my anger only feeds his pleasure. My face burns behind a neutral mask as I wait for his broadside. Now that he’s laid the groundwork needed to destroy the Sparrow’s credibility, he must move on to the message the little sloop has risked herself to deliver.

  “You are wondering what the Sparrow’s urgent dispatch was, no doubt,” Rima says, reading the crowd. “I will tell you. No, I’ll do better than that. I will read it to you. Because I need not put on a theatrical performance for my own crew.” He reaches into the breast pocket of his tunic and removes a parchment, the official seal broken across its edge. With the ceremony of unwrapping orders, Rima straightens the page.

  “Lord Captain of the Lyron League Ship Aurora,” he reads aloud. “It is with sorrow that I inform you of the dire situation in the Ardent. The League fleet suffered grievously during last month’s engagement with the Tirik Republic and our economy is fragile. We believe the Tirik Republic will actively harass Lyron merchants in hopes of destroying our trade. As the only ship in the Siaman Sea, it is thus vital that you do your utmost to protect the merchant convoys and remain vigilant for the enemy’s likely assault on the defenseless vessels. Faithfully yours, Admiral of the Blue, Lord Hector Delion.”

  Rima lowers his parchment to rub his hand over his face. “In plain terms, the Aurora’s mission to protect League merchants is more vital than ever. An important point, to be sure, but perhaps one that required little of the pomp and flair the Ashing ship decided to put forth. We know our duty and are, in fact, en route to pick up a merchant now. The sloop’s needless excitement
does nothing but give way to rumor.” He shakes his head in disappointment. “You can see why I sent the Sparrow away at once, I hope?”

  A murmur passes over the crew.

  I struggle to get air into my chest. Rima is good. Very good. Except that he has no reason to know that Admiral of the Blue, Lord Hector Delion, quietly turned in his letter of resignation several days before Aurora set sail from Ashing docks.

  Chapter 14

  The letter Rima just read is not from Delion, I’m certain of that much. Either the dispatch was forged or Rima lied as to its contents.

  And I have more faith in the Sparrow’s skipper than I have in the Aurora’s.

  “You may return to your duties,” Rima calls out, dismissing the crew. The men leave in lighter moods than they were in when gathered, and I am soon the only one still standing rooted in her place. Rima sees me and smiles a cruel, self-satisfied grin. Did you enjoy that? he seems to ask silently. I did.

  Anger pulses through me in hot streaks. I stare at him, at the parchment in his hand, at the rotten satisfaction in his face, and I feel my shoulders roll back, cracking healing skin and opening my magic to air. The magic bubbles and burns, excited to come play after being denied, and I throw myself into shaping it like a sail. The air comes in a great gush, and the wind sways, hitting the deck with an energetic burst that ruffles tunics and flogs the flag.

  The seamen curse, more than one losing his hat in the sudden gale. But I don’t care about them. I want the dispatch in Rima’s hand. I need the dispatch. The wild breeze twists around itself. My gaze burns into Rima’s hand while the captain frowns in confusion at the treacherous skies.

  I feel Domenic’s gaze on me. But I can’t help that.

  My body stills. I watch the captain, waiting for the moment his grip is loosest. And when I see it, I call my breeze home with a sharp jerk.

  Domenic gasps.

  Rima squawks as the parchment flies from his hands, carried in the wind. Fast. Too fast. Heading… Storms. Heading overboard, to sink away without ever revealing its truth.

  I rush after it, skidding along the planks. With a leap that makes me gasp in pain, I lean over the rail and snatch the message.

  “Give that to me!” Rima orders, striding toward me with his hand outstretched.

  My pulse races. I’ve mere heartbeats until the captain or his cronies are on me. As fast as my fingers can move, I shake open the document and drink in the words. I’ve not the time to read aloud or even take in sentences. But the main words, words written in my brother Thad’s hand, jump at me from the page.

  Earthquake… Mainland shoreline destroyed… Lyron and Tirik. No approach for large frigates to either mainland…. Archipelago vital for timber, food, fresh water… Tirik fleet heading your way… Attack imminent… AURORA MUST HOLD THE BOTTLENECK… Ships on the way.

  Air leaves my lungs long before Johina’s fist lands in the pit of my stomach. My mouth is dry as I stare up into the thunder of Rima’s face. And then I yell as loud as my spasmed middle allows. “Coward!” I struggle to fill my lungs. “The captain lies! The Republic fleet heads our way! Aurora must hold the Bottleneck! The—” That’s as far as I get before Johina slams me to the deck and I taste blood. The seaman’s forearm presses into my windpipe, and I can scarcely breathe, much less scream.

  Slowly, Rima bends down to pick up his letter. He opens and scans its contents. Tucking the dispatch into his coat, he stares down at me.

  “You are unwell, Ash,” he says gently and loudly enough for all to hear. “I’ve seen such hysterics in women before, and I fear yours are getting worse each day. I do believe ship’s discipline has sent you over the edge. A seaman would have recovered long before now, but a woman…” He shakes his head, while I struggle beneath Johina’s hold. “What will you tell us next? That the Republic fleets are abandoning the Lyron Continent to suddenly capture the Siaman Sea?” He glances around, playing to the gathering crowd. “Or perhaps that you are really a princess? Or that you see the future in your dreams?”

  The men gathered around us laugh.

  Not Domenic. His face dark as a storm, he lunges toward me—only to find himself held fast by Catsper’s brutal wristlock. Domenic shoves the marine, who silently increases the pressure until Domenic is frozen in place.

  I choke out a growl. My hate for Rima burns hot in my chest. He’s pinned me in from all sides. The bastard bloody pinned me in.

  “Silence!” Rima barks, and the deck falls quiet. When he speaks again, his voice is cutting. “No one shall make jest of the girl’s hysteria. But neither will it be permitted to damage the operations, safety, and discipline of this vessel. Johina, put the wench in irons for the remainder of the voyage.”

  Johina takes his arm away from my throat, and I have an instant to draw a lungful of air. “No! He—” I try to shout, but Johina slams me against the deck again.

  “Enough of your cheek,” he growls and forces his neckerchief into my mouth until I gag on the rancid cloth. Then, grabbing me by my shirt, the Eflian half carries, half drags me into the holding cells. No, not them. He drags me farther down into the bilge, the lowest part of the ship where the refuse liquids of the upper decks naturally find relief. There being no irons here, Johina makes do with a rope around my ankles and wrists. Then, for good measure, he connects the two behind my back and leaves me flopping and gagging in the refuse. I scream despite the gag. I scream for my body, my duty, my failure.

  Bell. Bell. Bell. The ship’s sounds mark the passage of time that my body counts breath by breath. I hurt. My back, my arms, my lungs. It takes an hour to work the gag from my mouth. Another hour of yelling leaves me hoarse. With each minute, I matter less and less, while the great coward moves the Aurora farther from where she has to be.

  I plead with the dark that someone comes soon. Someone who will hear the truth. Catsper. I’m a prisoner; surely the lieutenant of the marines can check on a prisoner. Or send one of the Spades. Or… Or Domenic. If he can bear my company after the unforgivable words I threw at him. And after what I’m certain he’d worked out in that moment on deck.

  But Domenic doesn’t come. And neither does anyone else. Not at the end of the watch, or at mealtime, or when the ship goes dark for the night. Hunger and fear and pain soak through me. Does no one know where I am? Can no one hear my screams? Or am I simply not worth the effort?

  What would you do, Princess? Domenic’s words haunt me in the darkness. Run away? Or howl and cry and beg the Aurora to action? If that is what he thinks of me, what reason has he to come? That or the fact that he saw me for the useless, lying cripple that I am.

  My head is light. It’s dark and airless here and the stench chokes me. A rat scurries across my shins. I flail to get it off, pulling against my ropes and succeeding only in cutting my skin on the harsh hemp.

  I’ve heard prisoners scream before. I’ve seen the raw skin on their legs where they fought the restraint. And I’ve never understood the pointless efforts. What good is screaming on a ship when everyone knows where you are? Or injuring yourself against iron when no further escape routes exist? There is no point to it, I realize now. But down here in the darkness, there is no point to anything. Not when the walls feel as if they are closing in on me. Black and suffocating. And especially when I realize that even if Johina was to return and let me out of the bilge this instant, there is nothing for me to return to.

  I’ve failed. I failed as an Ashing officer when I lost the Faithful and its cargo. I failed as a princess when I absconded from my home. Failed Domenic when I chose lies for fear of losing him. And I’ve even failed as Nile Ash, who’s dissolved from a sailor into a pathetic, hysterical wench.

  I sob. Nile Ash is dead. She is dead, and in her place, there is nothing, only a useless, crippled Gifted.

  I release my control on my magic and let it use me as it pleases. I little care whether the magic burns itself out or burns me dead. The putrid air of the hold chases itself round and round, draining my strength
like a sieve. Another meal bell sounds as I lie with my cheek soaking in bilge water, my clothes drenched and my body trembling. Fear. Panic. The too familiar green lights. The jerking spells twist my body so it’s straining against the ropes.

  And again. Again.

  There is barely a heartbeat’s pause between the spells. The brewing fear in my gut is no longer a phantom precursor, but a real panic that even the little reprieve between convulsions might disappear. I scream in pain as the next set of shocks engulfs me, my body thumping against the sopping deck. It hurts, and I scream through my hoarse vocal cords, knowing no one will hear the croak. The darkness and cold are heavier around me. I hear no bells. Nothing nothing nothing at all.

  I little care now. I know no one is coming.

  And no one comes.

  Chapter 15

  QUINN

  Captain Quinn of the Hope stood on the quarterdeck, his arms behind his back, when the foremast lookout cried for attention.

  “Deck ho! The Aurora is signaling another course change, sir! She wants us to come due east again.”

  Quinn looked sharply at the Lyron frigate. There was no reason to veer off that he could see, and certainly not due east, back toward the Crystal Oasis. The Aurora was escorting them west through the Siaman Sea toward the three-pronged Bottleneck Juncture. Once Quinn was safely through the Bottleneck opening and in the Ardent Ocean, he would set course for the Tirik coastline and the Institute. Except yesterday’s course correction was turning into today’s full-on change of direction. As if the Aurora was disinclined to continue heading toward the Bottleneck at all.

  Quinn’s shoulders tensed, and he motioned the Hope’s single middie to him.

  “Get me my glass,” Quinn ordered the young gentleman. “And my compliments to Commission Jaquis. I would be pleased to see him on deck.”

  The middie disappeared at a trot, returning a moment later with Quinn’s glass.