Child of a Hidden Sea

by A. M. Dellamonica

  It’s his data too, she rationalized.

  Another tap: Verena, poking her head in. “What are you doing?”

  “Keeping busy so I don’t go insane with worry.”

  Verena edged inside. The ferret nosed at her hand.

  Maybe it’s not fond of me at all, Sophie thought. Maybe it’s just breakfast time.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Verena said. “Bram’s never been scripped before. When you get to the Fleet, you can get Annela to load some pretty decent protection onto him—a luck charm, toughness, whatever. She’ll know what to suggest.”

  “Bram wouldn’t have to be present?”

  “It’s all in his name. The Fleet has the best scribes in the world and this is a matter of—well, national security, basically. They’ll help you.”

  “What if they hurt him before then?”

  To her credit, Verena didn’t lie—she just shrugged.

  “It’s better than nothing, I guess.”

  “When are you heading back to San Francisco?”

  “I’m waiting on the angle of the sun—forty minutes or so.”

  “How does that work?”

  “It’s complicated,” Verena said.

  “There’s clocks involved. Gale had that watch, and Annela’s assistant or whatever—”

  “Her name’s Bettona,” Verena said. “Explaining how I go back and forth to Erstwhile would take more than forty minutes even if you didn’t end up asking me five hundred questions about astrophysics and black holes and time travel and who knows what else?”

  “And I bet you’re not allowed to say in any case.”

  “You’re starting to catch on. Listen, is there anything you need from home?” She waved at the pile of clothes and gadgetry.

  “Take my phone back to the Internet, will you? I’ve written some reassuring e-mails for our parents—they won’t have missed us yet, and this’ll buy us some more time.”

  “They’re queued up?”

  “Good to go, as soon as the phone finds a connection.” She opened Gale’s magic purse, closed the phone inside, and handed it over. “Here. Maybe if you carry the pouch to and from Earth, it’ll warm up to you.”

  “Fat chance of that.”

  “Worth a try, right?”

  “Nothing else you need? I’ll probably be back before you reach the Fleet, but even so I’ll be in San Francisco for at least a day.”

  “Sure, why not? Bring me … let’s see. Good wishes from your mother, a trank gun and taser—since I can’t duel—a squad of fanatically loyal ninja marines, a document scanner, Bram’s therapist, a dirigible, a glider, the UCSF evolutionary bio department, and maybe an order of mapo tofu from Shalin.”

  The faintest hint of a smile. “Medium spicy?”

  “Extra hot.”

  “Which reminds me. Parrish said breakfast’s on.”

  “How’s his arm?” Sophie made for the hatch. The ferret pawed at her elbow and she let it climb her and settle its negligible weight on her shoulders.

  “Looks better to me. He’s lost that feverish look.”

  She wondered if she should say something about Captain Arrogant. But what? So, sis, the cute boy … how much do you like him? The answer to that was obvious in any case. She fingered the button from his jacket.

  How much do I like him?

  She shook the thought away and said, “He’s a good guy.”

  Verena grunted. “Sea smart, land dumb.”

  Parrish cut off any chance of bonding, over his cuteness or other qualities, by choosing that moment to show up.

  “Good morning,” he said, his tone brisk, all business. His arm was speckled with the same weals as Sophie’s, fifty or sixty of them. On his walnut skin, the redness was less apparent, but the dry peaks of the bites looked worse.

  At least the arm looked like an arm now, and not a balloon.

  “I’ve been thinking of ways to improve upon our tactical situation once we get to the Fleet,” he said. “It’s occurred to me that Bram’s never been scripped—”

  “So we can cast a protection on him or something?” Sophie said. “Verena suggested that.”

  “Of course she did.” He smiled approvingly.

  There’s affection there for sure, Sophie thought, looking from one to the other, but is it sexual, or more … cousinly? Do they have chemistry?

  Breakfast turned out to be a peculiar stew that reminded her of a Newfoundland delicacy, fish and brewis. It was a combination of bread pudding and lightly salted orange fish, served with a side of pale, rose-colored slices of a tangy preserved fruit. There was strong coffee. Bram’s favorite alkaloid. Sophie picked at the food, letting the ferret high-grade out the best pieces of meat.

  Verena checked her watch. “Twenty minute warning.”

  Parrish gave her a bulging envelope, closed with a big red seal. “I’m not sure if this will help persuade Beatrice to help us. She didn’t much care for me even before Gale—”

  “Don’t start,” Verena said. “You and Gale sailed together forever. It’s not like you fumbled her the first time out. Her finally getting killed, it’s not your fault.”

  His expression was unreadable. “Let’s hope Beatrice sees it that way.”

  “Oh, you know my mom. She’ll ladle out blame in equal portions. Some for me, some for you, some for Sophie…”

  “Fish for breakfast,” Sophie said. “Guilt for lunch.”

  “Your mother may be high-strung but she’s not unfair, Verena,” Parrish said.

  That wasn’t chemistry, that was definitely cousinly.

  Okay, Sofe, stop! What do you care about Verena’s unrequited crush?

  She wrestled her thoughts back on point. “If Beatrice does this for us, for me and Bram, I’ll leave you all alone,” Sophie said. “Tell her. I’ll back off. I just want Bram returned—”

  Whatever Verena might have said was interrupted by a cry from above: “Sail!”

  “Crap.” Was it the Ascension, come to sink them after all?

  Moving with both speed and precision—he was stunningly graceful, Sophie thought, and she remembered touching his fingers in that medicinal, foaming bath—Parrish finished his coffee, fumbled to shove his ridiculous bicorne hat down over his curls and made for the hatch, swinging his coat off its hook as he went. By the time Verena and Sophie had made it up to the main deck, he was every bit the official figure, complete with spyglass, ramrod straight and scanning the horizon.

  Fog had risen in the night, leaving the sea half shrouded. Sophie thumbed on her camera, scanning in the same direction he was looking.

  There. A trim looking … would you call that a caravel? Three-masted, square-rigged … it was barely visible, an outline etched on rolling fog.

  Beside her, she felt rather than saw the motion of Parrish clicking his spyglass shut and turning on his heel. “Nothing there.”

  “It’s two points west of our bow,” she said. “I don’t recognize the flag, though.”

  “Sophie,” he said. “Please, don’t—”

  “Don’t what?” She’d recorded a few seconds of the ship; now, as it vanished behind a cornice of mist, she flipped the camera screen to display mode to show him what she’d caught. “Am I good or what?”

  “That’s a Fleet flag,” Verena said, her head pressing against Sophie’s as they peered at the screen. “They’ve sent someone to find us. To escort us! This is good!”

  But it wasn’t. That was obvious from Parrish’s expression.

  “You were gonna pretend you hadn’t seen her,” Sophie accused. “You were going to boot it in the opposite direction and vanish into the fog. What the hell?”

  “I assure you, I had not seen the flags this ship was flying … until now.”

  “Meaning what? You got half a glimpse and were gonna run away before you were sure, so you could say truthfully that we didn’t know who they were? Parrish?”

  “Yes.” One word, bitten off so short it was almost prissy.

  “But w
hy? Don’t we want the Fleet? Haven’t we been trying to get—”

  He pressed his lips together. “It’s done now.”

  “What’s the problem?” Verena was still examining the image. “That’s … that’s a Judicial flag, isn’t it? It is—that’s a serious Judicial array. Who the hell is on that ship?”

  “The ship is flying the official colors of the Duelist-Adjudicator,” Parrish said. “It’s his private sailing vessel.”

  “They’re ordering us to match course.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Why would the Duelist—” Verena began.

  Sophie said: “Could we sort out the inheritance, then? Could Verena challenge me?”

  Her sister brightened. “I think we’d have to go to the actual Dueling Deck. But maybe the Adjudicator could file the paperwork, or at least advise us.”

  “Great!”

  Verena’s watch beeped again. “I’m supposed to leave in ten.”

  “You’ll have to wait,” Parrish said. “Now we’ve seen them, we’re honor-bound to obey.”

  Sophie’s nerves, already strained, snapped entirely. “What’s the big deal? You like honor and obey. You’re practically made of honor and obey, as far as I can tell.”

  Verena said, “We’ve been trying to connect with someone official for days. Why not them?”

  “It’s because they’re Duelists, isn’t it?” Sophie said.

  That got them a nod.

  “What is the problem here with the Dueling thing, Parrish? Why was Gale all stay away, stay away? Did someone challenge me in utero?”

  He avoided her gaze.

  “The truth’s sailing toward us at fifteen knots or better, isn’t it? You think they’re gonna keep her big secret?”

  “She wouldn’t have wanted this.” Parrish leaned on the rail, just for a moment, as if trying to will the larger ship away. Sophie saw fatigue there, and a lingering pain from the wasp bites in the way he shifted his weight off the arm. Beneath that, she sensed, was something bigger, a great depth of feeling. He sailed with Gale all those years, and I keep forgetting that he’s sad, he’s grieving. They must have been so close. I wonder if he has anyone else at all …

  She thought of her family. I had it so good, and now maybe I’ve lost Bram. What’ll I say to Mom and Dad?

  She’d have to give up diving, get a nice safe job in town and devote herself to being boring and taking care of them.

  I’ve destroyed two families, all in one cruise.

  “She’s right, Garland. At this point either you tell us or they do,” Verena said.

  “Of course,” Parrish said. “If the ship’s here, it’s all come out anyway. Sophie, Verena…”

  “Yes?”

  “Aboard that ship. I mean, the Duelist-Adjudicator himself…”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s rather an imposing individual. His name is Clydon Banning, and he’s from—”

  “Now you’re stalling!” Sophie said.

  “Come on, Garland, it’ll be okay,” Verena said. “Choke it out.”

  He rubbed his jaw, as if checking for a beard, and squared off, just a little, like a soldier in trouble. “Clydon Banning is your mother’s ex-husband, Verena. Nobody’s ever said anything to me directly, but the Duelist-Adjudicator is … it’s almost certain he’s Sophie’s father.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Father.

  The women gaped at Parrish.

  Finally, Sophie said: “Are you going to tell us anything more?”

  He colored. “I should leave that for His Honor.”

  “That figures.” She was so mad she was shaking.

  Instead of pummeling him, or even bellowing about his being the latest in the long string of people trying to hold her at arm’s length from the truth, Sophie turned on her heel and marched to her cabin.

  As soon as she had slammed the door and thrown the bolt, she regretted it. She had a zillion questions.

  Pride kept her from running back up to demand the answers.

  “He wouldn’t give them anyway,” she told Blue, the ferret. “Who does he think he is?”

  Rather than pace the cabin in a stew over Captain Tasty … okay yes, he’d busted a gut to rescue Bram, and Verena was incredibly crushed out on him, or resenting his reticence and unswerving loyalty to a dead woman—which, okay, pretty admirable in its way except that it was making all this harder. And anyway, at the end of all this she was going home … It wasn’t as though they were embarking on a beautiful, lifelong friendship. No, rather than chew over all that she pressed her face to the portal and stared at the Duelist-Adjudicator’s flag. The ship seemed much closer now, as if it had leapfrogged five or so of the miles between them. Perhaps the window glass had a curve to it.

  Birth father. Gonna finally meet the birth father.

  What if he’s just come all this way to tell me to stay the hell out of his life?

  “He could’ve sent a note for that. He’s coming toward, not running away. That’s got to mean something, doesn’t it?” Blue whined at her.

  Beatrice was horrified by the mere mention of him.

  He’s her ex-husband. You’re allowed to hate your ex. And everyone—well, Verena and Gale—they both basically said that Beatrice was a high-strung drama queen.

  I could ask Parrish if that’s true.

  OMG, forget Parrish!

  The ship, she noted, was making astoundingly good time.

  She reached for her phone, thinking to send Bram another comfort text:

  Found my father, eek, what if he’s Darth Vader or something?

  … and remembered she had given it to Verena.

  She went into a frenzy of looking at all Gale’s books for information on the structure of the Fleet’s court system. What exactly was a Duelist-Adjudicator?

  Nothing.

  “It’s a pretty self-explanatory title, isn’t it?”

  Blue batted at the square of sponge she’d liberated from the princess dress.

  Well, that at least would keep her busy. She fished out the rest of her small samples—seeds and shells and snips of leaf, insects in alcohol—concealing them at even intervals within the petticoat until, up on deck, the sailors began to bring the two ships alongside each other.

  “I could’ve spent all that time and energy changing my clothes,” she said suddenly. “Damn!”

  Changing into what? What did you wear to meet a … oh, she was so overthinking this!

  She fought back a flood of tears, reaching for reason. Her father could reject her in a peasant shirt and spandex tights as easily as anything else.

  “Want to come?” she asked the ferret. “Moral support?”

  Blue unwound itself, sniffed, and then settled by her pillow, the snake’s head of its tail stretching out into a thin ray of sunshine coming through the dark glass.

  Sophie went back up on deck.

  The two ships were perhaps fifty feet apart now, easing ever closer. FJV Sawtooth was painted on the caravel’s prow. As it came between them and the sun, its shadow fell like a blanket, chilling Nightjar’s decks.

  Her crew was dressed in trim black uniforms with little pillbox hats and an insignia—a sword and a fist, crossed—embroidered in gold on their shoulder. They were neat and efficient as they brought the ships alongside, matching speed and course with Nightjar.

  A tall, lean man in a black half-cloak leaned on the rail—over it, almost—scanning the ship, alert as a tracking dog on the scent. As his gaze lit on Sophie, he broke into a wide, bright-eyed, thoroughly delighted grin. “Perza vrai? Il Feliasdottar?”

  Sophie waved mightily. “Hello! Hello!” To the others she whispered, “He doesn’t speak Fleet? He has to speak Fleet to be a judge, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s attempting Verdanii,” Verena said. “His accent’s trash. It’s polite of him, though.”

  “Hello!” Sophie called again.

  “Sophie—” Parrish murmured. “You mustn’t tell him anything about Erstwhile.” />
  “State secret, right?” she said coldly. “I remember.”

  “It’s more than that. Your mother’s peace of mind, her sense of having found refuge—”

  She rounded on him. “What’d he do?”

  “It’s—I wouldn’t say exactly that he—now isn’t the time.”

  “Fine. I won’t tell him about San Francisco.”

  He drew away with a tight bow. That’s right. Bug off, Mister Secret-Keeping Captain of Secrecy.

  “He doesn’t look like the incarnation of evil,” she whispered to Verena.

  Her half sister laughed.

  “Hello,” Sophie called again. “Kir … Banning? Hi!”

  The man—her father? really?—beamed. He all but glowed.

  Clydon Banning was fiftyish from the look of him, an athletic fifty, with wavy chestnut hair and an unmistakably wolfish expression. He had strong-looking hands, straight, perfect teeth and wore a cutlass at his hip.

  “It’s true,” he said. “A daughter. I see the Banning in you! You must be twenty-four, yes?”

  She nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sophie. Sophie Hansa.”

  By now the two ships were barely within reach of each other. He leapt up to the rail. “Captain?”

  “You’re welcome aboard, Your Honor,” Parrish said. “Of course.”

  Banning’s black-clad sailors laid a plank from rail to rail. It barely reached, but her father—her father!—leapt onto and across it, practically skipping, then hopping down.

  “Might I?” He made as if to open his arms, but didn’t grab.

  A little dazed, Sophie nodded. Clydon Banning folded her into a hug. His cloak was heavy wool; it was like being enfolded in a blanket with hard buttons. For good measure, he kissed the top of her head.

  Great. I’m gonna cry again.

  “I can only imagine what you’ve been told, child, but I beg you, don’t credit it until you know me,” he said, ever so quietly, into her ear. Then he released her.

  Then he addressed himself to Verena. “Kir…”

  “Thorna Feliachild,” Verena said. “Your Honor.”

  “Rumor of Gale Feliachild’s murder has reached the Fleet. Is it true?”