Rise Of Empire

by Sullivan, Michael J

  “Drew walking the yard in a rainstorm?” Jacob laughed. “Not likely.”

  “And where was Royce during all this?” Bristol asked.

  Dime shook his head. “I dunno, didn’t see him till later when he turned up at the masthead.”

  “Bernie was playing cards with him last night, wasn’t he? I heard Drew walked away with a big pot.”

  “Now you’re saying Bernie killed him?” a third fellow, with a red kerchief, asked. Hadrian had never seen him before but guessed he must be the captain of the mizzenmast, as the top captains, along with the boatswains, seemed to dine together at the same table.

  “No, but I’m saying the cook was there and he and Royce are mates, aren’t they? I think—” Jacob stopped short when he spotted Hadrian. “Bloody good thing you’re a better cook than your mate is a topman or Mr. Temple’s liable to chuck you both in the deep.”

  Hadrian said nothing. He looked around for Royce but did not find him, which was not too surprising, as he guessed his friend would not want to be anywhere near food.

  “Might want to let your mate know I’ve asked Bristol here to have a word with Mr. Beryl about him.”

  “Beryl?” Bristol responded, puzzled. “I was gonna talk to Wesley.”

  “Bugger that,” Jacob said. “Wesley’s useless. He’s a bleeding joke, ain’t he?”

  “I can’t go over his head to Beryl,” Bristol said defensively. “Wesley was watch officer when it happened.”

  “Are you barmy? What’re you scared of? Think Wesley’s gonna have at ya for going to Beryl? All Wesley will do is report you. That’s all he ever does. He’s a boy and hasn’t grown a spine yet in that midshipman’s uniform of his. Only reason he’s on the Storm is ’cause his daddy is Lord Belstrad.”

  “We need to serve the midshipmen next,” Poe reminded Hadrian, urgently tugging at his sleeve. “They mess in the wardroom aft.”

  Hadrian dropped off the messkid, hanging it from a hook the way he had seen Poe do, and gave Jacob one last glance only to find the fore captain grinning malevolently.

  Far smaller and not much more comfortable than the crew’s quarters, the midshipmen’s mess was a tiny room aft on the berth deck that creaked loudly as the ship’s hull lurched in the waves. Normally, Basil delivered the food he cooked for the officers, but this morning he was kept particularly busy working on the lieutenants’ and captain’s meal and had asked Poe and Hadrian for help in delivering the food to the midshipmen’s mess.

  “What are you doing in here?” the biggest midshipman asked abruptly as Hadrian and Poe entered. Hadrian almost answered when he realized the question was not addressed to him. Behind them, coming in late, was the young officer who had put Hadrian on report earlier. “You’re supposed to be on watch, Wesley.”

  “Lieutenant Green relieved me a bit early so I could get some food while it was hot.”

  “So you’ve come to force yourself in on your betters, is that it?” the big man asked, and got a round of laughter from those with him. This had to be Beryl, Hadrian guessed. He was by far the oldest of the midshipmen—by ten years or more. “You’re going to be nothing but a nuisance to the rest of us on this voyage, aren’t you, boy? Here we thought we could have a quiet meal without you disturbing us. What did you do, whine to Green about how your stomach was hurting because we didn’t let you have anything to eat last night?”

  “No, I—” Wesley began.

  “Shut it! I don’t want to hear your sniveling voice. You there, cook!” Beryl snapped. “Don’t serve Midshipman Wesley any food, not a biscuit crumb, do you understand?”

  Hadrian nodded, guessing that Beryl somehow outranked Wesley despite both of them wearing midshipmen uniforms.

  Wesley looked angry but said nothing. The boy turned away from the table toward his sea chest.

  “Oh yes,” Beryl said, rising from the table and walking across the room to Wesley. As he did, Hadrian noticed an old scar down the side of Beryl’s face that looked to have nearly taken out his eye. “I’ve been meaning to go through your stuff to see if you had anything I might like.”

  Wesley turned, closing his chest abruptly.

  “Open it, boy, and let me have a look.”

  “No, you have no right!”

  Beryl’s toadies at the table jeered the boy and laughed.

  He took a step forward, and from his posture, Hadrian knew what was coming even if Wesley was oblivious. The big midshipman struck Wesley hard across the face. The boy fell over his sea chest onto his back. He rolled to his side, his face red with fury, but never got farther than his knees before Beryl struck him again, this time hard enough to spray blood from his nose. Wesley collapsed to the floor again with a wail of pain and lay crumbled in a ball, holding his face. The other midshipmen cheered.

  Beryl sifted through the contents of Wesley’s chest. “All that for nothing? I thought you were a lord’s son. This is pathetic.” He pulled a white linen shirt out and looked it over. “Well, this isn’t too bad, and I could use a new shirt.” He slammed the chest and returned to his breakfast.

  Disgusted, Hadrian started to move to help Wesley but stopped when he saw Poe earnestly shaking his head. The young seaman took hold of Hadrian’s arm and nearly dragged him back up to the main deck, where the sun had risen sufficiently enough to cause them to squint.

  “Don’t involve yourself in the affairs of officers,” Poe told him earnestly. “They’re just like nobles. Strike one and you’ll hang for it. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. My older brother Ned is the coxswain on the Immortal. The horror stories he’s told me can turn one’s stomach. Blimey, you act like you’ve never been on a ship before.”

  Hadrian did not say anything as he followed Poe back toward the galley.

  “You haven’t, have you?” Poe asked suddenly.

  “So, who is this big fella? Is he Beryl?” Hadrian asked, changing the subject.

  Poe scowled, then sighed. “Yep, he’s the senior midshipman.”

  “So Beryl’s a noble?”

  “Don’t know if he is or he ain’t. Most are third or fourth sons, the ones not suited for the tournaments or monastic life who volunteer to serve, hoping they can one day manage a captain’s rank, rule their own ship, and make some money. Most midshipmen only serve about five years before making lieutenant, but Beryl, he’s been a midshipman for something like ten years now, I reckon. I guess it makes a man sorta cranky, being left behind like that. Even if he isn’t a true blue-blooded noble, he’s still an officer, and on this ship, that means the same thing.”

  “Royce?” Hadrian whispered.

  Royce lay in his hammock near the bow of the ship, his head still covered with the white kerchief—the insignia of the maintop crew. He was shivering and wet, lying in soaked clothes.

  “Royce,” he repeated. This time, he shook his partner’s shoulder.

  “Do that again and I’ll cut your hand off,” he growled, his voice garbled and sickly.

  “I brought you some coffee and bread. I put raisins in the bread. You like raisins.”

  Royce peered out from under his thin blanket with a vicious glare. He eyed the meal and promptly looked away with a grimace.

  “Sorry, I just knew you hadn’t eaten since yesterday.” Hadrian put the tray down away from him. “They gave you extra duty, didn’t they? You seemed to be up there longer than anyone else.”

  “Bristol kept me on station as punishment for being slow yesterday. How long was I up there?”

  “Twelve hours at least. Listen, I thought we’d have a look around the forward hold. Wyatt tells me the seret are hiding a special cargo up there. If you can get your stomach under control, maybe you can open a few locks for me?”

  Royce shook his head. “Not until this ship stops rolling. I stand up and the world spins. I’ve got to sleep. How come you’re not sick?”

  “I am, but not like you. I guess elven blood and water don’t mix.”

  “It might,” Royce said, disappearing b
ack under his blanket. “If I don’t start feeling better soon, I’ll slit my wrists.”

  Hadrian took his blanket, laid it over the shivering form of Royce, and was about to head back up topside when he paused and asked, “Any idea what happened to Edgar Drew?”

  “The guy that fell?”

  “Yeah, some of the crew think he might have been murdered.”

  “I didn’t see anything. Spent most of my time hugging the mast. I was pretty sick—still am. Get out of here and let me sleep.”

  It was late and the port watch was on duty, but most of them slept on deck or in the rigging. Only a handful had to remain alert during the middle watch: three lookouts aloft at the masthead, the quartermaster’s mate who manned the wheel in Wyatt’s absence, and the officer of the watch. Hadrian nearly ran into this last man as he came on deck.

  “Mr. Wesley, sir,” Hadrian said, shifting the tray so he could properly perform the salute.

  Wesley’s face was blotchy, his nose and eyes black and blue. Hadrian knew he was standing an additional watch. On his way to Royce, Hadrian had overheard Lieutenant Bishop questioning the midshipman about a brawl, but because Wesley had refused to divulge the name of his adversary, the young man took the punishment alone.

  “Mr. Wesley, I thought you might like something to eat. I’m guessing you haven’t had much today.”

  The officer glared at him a moment, then looked at the tray. As he saw the steam rising from the coffee cup, his mouth opened and abruptly shut. “Who sent you here? Was it Beryl? Is this supposed to be funny?”

  “No, sir. I just know you didn’t get to eat breakfast, and you’ve been on duty through the rest of the meals today. You must be starved.”

  “You were ordered not to feed me.”

  Hadrian shrugged. “I’ve also been ordered by the captain to see that the crew is fed and fit for duty. You’ve been up a long time. A man could fall asleep without something to help keep his eyes open.”

  Wesley looked back down. “That’s coffee, isn’t it?” the young midshipman asked, astonished. “There’s not more than a few pounds of that on the entire ship, most of which is reserved for the captain.”

  “I did a bit of trading this afternoon with the purser and managed to get a couple cups’ worth.”

  “Why offer it to me?”

  Hadrian looked up at the night sky. “It’s a cold night, and punishment for falling asleep can be severe.”

  Wesley nodded gravely. “On this ship, a midshipman is flogged.”

  “Do you think that’s Beryl’s plan, sir? For standing up to him this morning in front of the other officers, I mean.”

  “Maybe. Beryl is a tyrant of the worst order, and a libertine who squandered his family’s fortune. I suspect Beryl would not even notice me, if it were not for my brother. By beating me he thinks he is superior to our family.”

  “Your brother is Sir Breckton Belstrad?”

  Wesley nodded. “But the joke is on him. I am nothing like my brother, so besting me is no great accomplishment. If I were like him, I would not allow myself to be bullied by a lout like Beryl.”

  “Take the coffee and bread, sir,” Hadrian said. “I can’t say I care for Beryl, and if keeping you awake tonight gets under his skin, it’ll make tomorrow all the better in my book. The orders of the captain override a senior midshipman’s.”

  “I’ll still have to put you on report for this morning. This kindness will not change that.”

  “I didn’t expect it to, sir.”

  The midshipman studied Hadrian, his face betraying a new curiosity. “In that case, thank you,” he said, taking the food.

  Dovin Thranic walked through the waist hold. Dark and cramped, the ship’s bottom deck reeked of animal dung and salt water. A good four inches of liquid slime pooled along the centerline gutter, forcing him to walk up the sides, hurdling the futtock rider beams to keep his shoes dry. The next day he would order Lieutenant Bishop to direct the detail of men to work the bilge pump in the evening to ensure he did not need to go through this every night. He was a sentinel of the Nyphron Church, presently one of only two men allowed to speak personally with His Holiness the Patriarch, and yet here he was crawling through sewage.

  His unsettled stomach made the ordeal even more miserable. After several days of sleeping on board the Emerald Storm while it was in dock, he thought he had gained his sea legs. The initial wretchedness had subsided only to return now that the ship was rolling at a different cadence on the open sea. While not nearly as bad as before, his nausea was still a nuisance and would make his work less enjoyable.

  Thranic carried no light but did not need one. The sentry’s lanterns at the far end of the hold gave sufficient illumination for him to see. He passed several sentries, seret who stood rigidly at their stations, ignoring his approach.

  “They seem quiet tonight. Have they been behaving?” Thranic asked as he approached the cages.

  “Yes, sir,” the senior guard replied, breaking his statuesque facade only briefly. “Seasickness. They’re all under the weather.”

  “Yes,” Thranic noted, not without a degree of revulsion. He watched them. “They can see me, you know, even in the dark. They have very good eyesight.”

  Because a response was not required, the seret remained silent.

  “I can see recognition on their faces, recognition and fear. This is my first trip to visit them, but already they know me. They can sense the power of Novron within me, and the evil in them instinctually cowers. It’s like I’m a candle, and the light I give off pushes back their darkness.”

  Thranic stepped closer to the cages, each so densely packed the elves were forced to take turns standing and lying. Those standing pressed their filthy naked bodies against each other for support. Males, females, and children were jammed together tightly, creating a repugnant quivering mass of flesh. He watched with amusement as they whimpered and whined, struggling to move away from his approach.

  “See? I am light, and the putrid blackness of their souls retreats before me.” Thranic studied their faces, each gaunt and hollow from starvation. “They’re disgusting creatures—unnatural abominations that never should have been. Their very existence is an insult. You feel it, don’t you? We need to purge the world of the stain they cause. We need to do our best to clear the offense. We need to prove ourselves worthy.”

  Thranic was no longer looking at the elves. He was staring at his own hands. “Purification is never easy, but always necessary,” he muttered pensively. “Fetch me that tall male with the missing tooth,” Thranic ordered. “I’ll begin with him.”

  Following the sentinel’s direction, the guards ripped the elf from his cage and bound his elbows behind his back. Using a spare rigging pulley, they hoisted the unfortunate prisoner by his arms to the overhead beam. The effort pulled the elf’s limbs from their sockets, causing him to scream in agony. His wails and the wretched look on his face caused even the seret to look away, but Thranic watched stoically, his lips pursed approvingly.

  “Swing him,” he said. The elf howled anew from the motion.

  The sentinel looked at the cages again. Inside, others were weeping. At his glance, one female pushed forward. “Why can’t you leave us alone?”

  Thranic searched her face with a look of genuine pity. “Maribor demands that the mistake of his brother be erased. I’m merely his tool.”

  “Then why not—why not just kill us and get it over with?” she cried at him, eyes wild. Thranic paused. He stared once more at his hands. He turned them over, examining both sides with a distant expression. He was silent for so long that even the seret turned to face him. Thranic looked back at the female, his eyes blurring and lips trembling. “One must scrub very hard to remove some stains. Take her next.”

  CHAPTER 7

  ROTTEN EGGS

  For Empress Modina, everything had changed a month ago, after she had stood on the balcony and addressed the citizens of the New Empire. Due to Amilia’s constant chipping aw
ay at the regents’ resolve, the empress now enjoyed an unprecedented degree of freedom within the palace, and she wandered freely, dressed in fresh new clothing.

  She never went anywhere in particular, and oftentimes after returning she could not recall where she had been. Although she longed to feel grass beneath her feet, her permitted boundary did not extend past the palace walls. She was certain no guard would stop her if she tried to leave, but she feared Amilia would suffer the regents’ wrath if she did, so she remained inside the keep.

  Now Modina walked gracefully in her new dress, silent and pensive, the way an empress should. As she descended the curved stair, she felt the hem of her gown drag along the stone steps. The new dresses had also been Amilia’s doing. Her secretary had personally supervised the imperial seamstress in their construction and curtailed any attempts the woman had tried to make to embellish them with lace or embroidery. Each was brilliant white and patterned after a simple, yet eloquent, design. Amilia had told the seamstress that the main goal was to create clothing that would make Modina feel as comfortable as possible, so the dressmaker focused on constructing plain but well-fitted garments and dispensed with utilizing stiff collars, tight bodices, or stays.

  While the freedom and new dresses had been welcome changes, the most dramatic difference had been the way people reacted when seeing the empress. Since leaving her bedroom, Modina had passed two young women carrying a pile of linens and a page with an armful of assorted boots. He had dropped one the moment he spotted her, and the two girls chatted excitedly to each other. She had seen in their faces the same look that everyone wore: the belief that she was the Chosen One of Maribor.

  When she had first come to the palace, everyone had avoided her the way one evades a dog known to bite. After her speech, those few members of the palace staff she chanced upon had looked at her with affectionate admiration and an unspoken understanding, as if acknowledging that they finally comprehended her previous behavior. The new gowns had the unintended effect of turning admiration into adoration, as the white purity and modest simplicity gave Modina an angelic aura. She had transformed from the mad empress to the saintly—although troubled—high priestess.