“Actually, Gramma, I’d just as soon we were alone. I’ve got some things I want to show you.” She stepped into the study holding her big leather satchel before her like a shield—a purpose it could have served, since it held enough paper to stop a hunting arrow.
“Oh. Well, all right.” Julia motioned to a pair of thickly upholstered chairs by the window and rose to join her. “Is there some problem with the books?”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Cynthia sat and placed the satchel on her lap, delving into it with both hands. She extracted a roll of parchment as thick as her leg and bound with two wide ribbons. She placed that to the side and took an additional stack of flat paper out of the bag. These she spread out on the broad, low table between their chairs.
“I think you need to see what I’ve done here.” She took the top sheet and pushed it over to her grandmother. “This is something I learned from Koybur. Sailors use charts that have lines on them that represent the mountains and valleys under the water. I thought I might do the same with money instead of the depth of the water. This is like a picture of what’s been happening to our money over the last few years.”
“My goodness, dear. Why would you ever want to look at all that?” Julia glanced at the maze of dotted lines tracing from left to right, some rising, some falling. “It’s not what’s happened in the past that’s important, it’s what will happen tomorrow, and the day after that.”
“But by looking at this you can see what we did wrong before and what needs to be changed. See?” She pointed out four different lines that trended steadily downward. “When the lines angle down like that, that means we lose money. When they’re flat, like these five, we are breaking even, and when they are rising, like these three, we are making money.”
“So you’re saying we should take the money from these falling investments and put it in the ones that make more money? Well, that might work dear, but you have no way of knowing what the future will bring. Next year these lines might all change direction.”
“They might, but it’s not likely, Gramma. This picture covers the last five years, and these trends haven’t changed much in that whole time. Besides, it’s not that simple.” She pulled out another sheet. “This is another picture showing how much money we put into these different investments. You have to look at how much goes in to see if you’re getting your money’s worth. Now, these two that were making money here, were costing us more to maintain over here. See?”
“I, uh... I suppose.” The older woman’s eyes flickered from one chart to the other, mystified at how the squiggly lines represented numbers, which represented gold. This was a new concept to her. All her financial advisers simply looked at columns of numbers.
“Good. So what we want to do is put these two together to see which of our investments are giving us the best return for the money, right?” Cynthia produced another sheet, this one sporting one line soaring skyward while the rest wavered about the middle, or fell precipitously. “Do you see how this works?”
“I think so, dear,” the older woman said, her eyes brightening a bit. “This one shows how much money we made or lost; this one, how much money we put into each; and this one is like taking the investment away from the profits. Is that right?”
“Exactly!” Cynthia said with a smile. “Now, would you like to know which of these is the only one giving us a decent return for our investment?”
Cynthia’s grandmother’s face fell like a sail cut from its halyard. She stared at her granddaughter with a look of betrayal and disbelief. She stiffened in her chair and removed her reading glasses with a shaking hand. Her lips pursed, and Cynthia could tell her teeth were clenched to the point of breaking.
“I refuse to believe that the only investment we have of any value is those ships, Cynthia.” Her voice was tightly controlled, on the verge of rage but held in check to prevent another unthinking outburst. “You could have made these pictures any way you wanted. They mean nothing.”
“I am not lying to you, Grandmother.” Cynthia’s voice shook with anger, but she also knew it would do her no good to vent that anger right now. “These charts are accurate. You can look at the numbers I used to make them if you wish.”
“I’ll do that, but I don’t see what that will prove.”
“It’ll prove that this family has been living off of nothing but those four leaky hulls that have not seen a shipyard in two years, Grandmother. They must be maintained, or they will fail us and their crews. If we are forced to pay the death settlements for sixty or so sailors, we’ll be ruined completely.”
“Then we should sell them directly and get out from under the burden!” the elder woman said, her fiery blue eyes shooting sparks of affirmation at Cynthia.
“Grandmother,” Cynthia began, calming herself, “we can’t do away with the only business we own that is actually making us money. If we do, we will run out of money in about three years. Koybur knows more about what to ship where and when than either you or I know about any of the other investments we have put money into. What we should do is spend some money on the ships we have and lay down a new hull to increase our fleet.”
She grabbed the heavy roll of parchment and pulled the ribbons free, laying the huge pages flat for her grandmother to see. Fine lined drawings crowded the pages, the kind of drawings shipwrights used to construct vessels. Cynthia presented the designs of the sleekly lined craft she’d been working on for years to her grandmother triumphantly.
“I’ve learned a lot from Master Keelson and Koybur. This is a different kind of ship; it’s smaller, faster and will sail closer to the wind than any galleon on the ocean. It’ll only carry about half as much cargo, but needs fewer crew and it’ll get where it’s going in half the time. We could ship perishable fruits and valuable silks. We could even transport ice from the Northlands south in winter! This ship will make us rich, Gramma, if you’ll only let me build it!”
“I realize that you want to follow in your grandfather’s footsteps, Cynthia, but I don’t think you realize how expensive new ships really are, not to mention hiring crew to man them. That is, if any trustworthy men can be found south of the Northern Desert.” She shifted uncomfortably in the upholstered chair as if her bones preferred the hard seat at her desk. “The problem with shipping is not ships, dear, it is sailors. They are irresponsible and prone to drunkenness, and I won’t trust them, ever.”
“You don’t know any sailors, Gramma,” Cynthia said with a sarcastic smile. “Besides Koybur, there hasn’t been a sailor in this house in fifteen years. Sure they drink, but never aboard their ships, and the money they spend is theirs, not yours. How they spend it is their business.”
“I knew sailors aplenty when your mother was a girl, Cynthia, and not a one of them was worth the spit it takes to polish a spoon!” She took a handkerchief from a pocket and rubbed her reddened eyes with it. “I don’t know why I ever married one.”
“Don’t punish both of us for something that happened years ago, Gramma.” Cynthia’s voice had turned soft and pleading. “Grandpa must have done something right to get as far as he did. Let me try to do the same. We’re starting with more than he did.”
“I’m sorry, Cynthia, but no.” The soft denial was more crushing than any that could have been screamed in rage, for she knew it wasn’t from anger but from careful thought. “I won’t put any more money into shipping. If we cannot stay solvent with our other investments, we may have to sell the estate, but I won’t have any more ships built.”
“Then I will, Grandmother!” Cynthia rolled the plans tightly, cinched the ribbons in taut bows, and stuffed them into her satchel. She stood and flung the heavy bag over her shoulder so hard that it almost spun her around. “The day you sell one more of our ships rather than repair it properly is the day I leave and hire on as crew on the first ship that’ll have me. If I have to start at the bottom, I will, but one day this family’s affairs will be mine to govern, and that will be the day we build ships again!�
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“I won’t have you disgrace yourself and this family by hiring on as common labor, Cynthia!” The older woman sprang up out of the chair, stepping around the low table with surprising agility. “I raised you better that that!”
“I won’t argue with you any more, Grandma,” Cynthia said, her voice softening once again. “I’ve said what I’m going to do. You think of me as a girl, but I’m not one anymore. I’m a woman, and if I want to go to sea, you can’t stop me. If you think I’m bluffing, Winter Gale is due in port in a few days. Put her up for sale and see what happens.”
She turned to go, but stopped in her tracks at one last offer from her grandmother.
“I’ll keep the four ships we own afloat, Cynthia. If they’re lost to pirates, or if some drunken captain runs them into a reef, I’ll not replace them, and I won’t build any more ships. What you do once I’m gone is out of my control.”
“Yes, Grandma, it is,” she said, turning to give the woman a grudging nod of agreement. “I’ll stay as long as there’re ships sailing with our flag on them. Once they’re gone, I’m gone.”
Cynthia left the study and strode through the halls of the only home she ever knew, wondering what had happened to the family she’d once been a part of. She turned a corner and thrust the heavy satchel back out of her way. She didn’t want the drawings ruined by the tears that dripped unchecked from her cheeks.
CHAPTER Six
Assassins and Broken Wings
White lace curtains fluttered in the light, cool breezes that filled the bedchamber with the fragrances of honeysuckle and frangipani. A few early mourning doves were cooing their soothing song, but the sun had yet to lighten the eastern sky. These were the hours when everyone slept most deeply, a fact that the dark, hooded figure easing through the window of the Garrison estate house knew all too well.
The casement creaked with his weight, but his feet met the floor without a sound. He left the window like a wraith on the wind, and moved around the foot of the great canopied bed with less than a whisper from the soles of his boots. The woman in the bed breathed easily and deeply, shrouded in a gossamer veil of mosquito netting that draped from above. She slept with a peace that melted the years away from her features and hinted of the stunning woman she had once been. The intruder looked down on that face without the faintest trace of pity.
A hand clad in black kidskin brushed aside the netting while its twin drew a short leather sap from a pocket. The weapon lashed out like a black viper. The sap struck Julia Garrison on the temple with enough force to snap her head to the side, knocking her unconscious before the pain of the blow could wake her.
Her assailant took a step back from the bed and cast about the room, absorbing every detail in a single long glance. He moved to the night table and tipped over the oil lamp, then removed a bottle from inside his shirt. The cork from the bottle of local rum popped free with a twist, and he poured a good amount over the night table and the lamp, and then made a circuit of the bed, dousing the gauzy canopy. The cork squeaked back into the neck of the bottle and he tucked it under the woman’s pillow. He returned to the nightstand and struck a match from the box there. Fire flared in his hand, and he paused a moment before dropping it onto the overturned lamp.
He was back to the window before the blue alcohol flames completed their circuit of the bed. The mosquito netting exploded into flames, crackling up to the ceiling in seconds. He spared one more glance back at the flaming canopy and the inferno cast a lurid light into the depths of his cloak’s hood. A cruel smile flickered for an instant before he turned and vanished into the night. His stealth was complete, the murder unwitnessed…or so he thought.
*
A tiny pair of eyes blinked at the orange light flaring through the window where the broom-wielder slept. He had watched and listened for many years, but fear of the broom-wielder, the wing-breaker, kept him from showing himself. He’d watched little Cynny grow and become a different person, but he still loved her, so he watched.
But this was something different; this was something dire. If there was one thing a seasprite feared more than a matron wielding a broom, it was fire. Fire at sea was everyone’s worst fear, and even a whiff of smoke would send a seasprite into a panic. Mouse was no exception, and the first gout of rolling smoke to escape the broom-wielder’s window sent him fluttering into action.
Years had not healed his wings, but Mouse had been deft with a bit of stolen silk thread and a few tiny fish bones. His wings were patched and splinted, and he could fly, after a fashion. He could not flitter about like he once had, and his speed was slow at best, but he could stay aloft and he could, mostly, avoid running into things.
He abandoned his sheltering banana frond and flew to the broom-wielder’s window. Flames filled the room. He could barely see the shape on the bed, and the fire set his tiny heart racing to such a frantic pace that it matched the beat of his wings. He had seen the shadowy figure leave, had watched it slip among the darkest bits of night, across the lawn and over the wall, but finding out who that figure was right now seemed less important than finding Cynny. She needed to know about the fire.
He fluttered around the foyer, avoided the trellises of thorny bougainvillea, and made his best speed to her window. It was cracked open just enough for him to slip through.
*
Cynthia woke as something fluttered against her face. A great moth or some other insect had managed to find a path through the netting and was tormenting her. She waved her hand and struck something remarkably solid. A high-pitched yelp brought her fully awake.
“Wha—?”
Something struggled, tangled in the mosquito netting. The flicker of gossamer-crystal wings and a white shirt and loose trousers on a six-inch frame brought her up short. It was Mouse!
“Mouse? What the hell? I thought you—” The smell of smoke filled her nostrils and her mind screamed a warning. She leapt out of bed, pulling at her nightdress and rummaging through her dresser. She knew that pausing to dress was ridiculous, but took a few moments to find a shirt and a pair of trousers anyway.
“Thank you, Mouse! By the Gods, thank you for waking me!” The sprite struggled to disentangle himself from the mosquito netting as she flung a shirt over her shoulders and burst from her room, shouting for the servants with every ounce of voice she could muster.
“Marta! Brolen! There’s a fire in the house!” She fought to get her arms in the sleeves as she shouted, finally getting the shirt on.
“Gramma! Brolen! Marta! Fire!”
She dashed down the hall to the landing of the main stair. Smoke filled the air here, limiting her vision and making her cough. Figures moved below and she recognized the servants.
“Get out of the house!” she bellowed, waving Marta toward the front door. “I’ll see to Gramma. Get out!”
“But Miss Cynthia!” she heard over her shoulder as she dashed down the hall. Her grandmother’s rooms were at the northernmost wing, just as hers were in the southernmost tower. She could not see through the smoke here, and imagined the worst even before she grasped the handle to her grandmother’s bedroom door.
Flesh hissed like a steak on a grill as her hand met the hot brass door handle, and her ears rang with her own reflexive scream. She knew even as she fumbled for the loose tail of her shirt that the room was ablaze, but she had to get in there.
Gramma’s in there!
The heat from the handle baked through the thin linen, burning her hand again. She looked at her reddened palm and decided on a more direct approach. She took a step back, raised a foot and kicked the thin oak planking near the handle as hard as she could. As the door crashed open, the fire leapt outward in a billowing cloud of orange that blasted her off her feet.
The room glowed in a raging inferno.
Lying there smelling the acrid odor of her own singed eyebrows, Cynthia could see beneath the billowing smoke and flames. Everything in the room was burning. The bed was still intact, the four sturdy posts
standing erect, though eager tongues of flame licked up their spirals. The form on the mattress lay as still as a headstone, blackened and blazing, barely recognizable as human. Agony stabbed through Cynthia’s heart.
She tried to go to her grandmother, but heat like the inside of a kiln beat her back. She peered through the haze of flames, smoke and tears. Her grandmother could not be alive. Nothing could survive that. Cool streaks ran down her cheeks, a trickle against the inferno; she wiped them angrily. She would never be able to banish that terrible vision from her mind.
Cynthia stared in shock for what seemed an eternity. If she didn’t act quickly the whole house would go up in flames. But what could she do?
Part of the ceiling collapsed onto the charred remnant of the bed. Sparks billowed out of the doorway, then were sucked back in as air was funneled into the room and up through the gaping hole in the roof. The flames being pulled back into the room, away from the rest of the house, gave her a desperate idea. She dashed down the stairs, unsure if her plan was even sane, but determined to try something. She glanced frantically around the great atrium. The towering room bisected the house into northern and southern wings. Behind the grand stair were the morning room and the patio, solid flagstones and a sparse framework of windows.
“Nothing to burn!” she shouted, looking back at the great arched stair and the two pillars that held up the ceiling. “Nothing to burn if the stairs and the roof weren’t here!”
She dashed out the front and almost fell over Brolen carrying two sloshing buckets from the horse trough. She snatched the buckets from him and screamed right in his face, “Get the team harnessed! Now! We need to pull down the pillars to save the rest of the house!”
“Yes’m!” she heard from behind her as she dashed up the stairs, hoping she could slow the blaze long enough to put her weak plan into effect.
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