by Alex Lidell
“And of our crew?” I keep my voice steady.
“Seventeen marines and eight seamen are fit for duty. Price is uninjured as well.”
“Ma’am.” A female voice I’d heard only in passing before today saves me from having to reflect on the butcher’s bill just yet. I turn to Tara, the able seaman Dominic chose for me. Her usually calm features are sharp with rage. “You need to see the Hope’s cargo hold,” she says, her nostrils flaring. “It’s… It’s bad, ma’am.”
By the day’s standards, which encompass discovering that the merchant vessel the Aurora has been escorting is actually a Tirik military ship and watching Catsper take a bullet for respecting my cease-fire, bad has a bit to live up to. I motion for Tara to lead the way and follow her down the companionway.
But then it’s all I can do to keep my composure as Tara grimly opens the door to the Hope’s main cargo hold, lying deep beneath the waterline. People. People overcrowded and locked like prisoners. As I lift my lantern to survey the hold, they turn to look at me with their slanted eyes and round, frightened faces. Faces of people from neither the Lyron Continent nor the Tirik mainland.
Diante faces.
“Who are you?” I ask a girl my age.
No answer.
Sweat covers my palms, and I fight an urge to sprint through the hold, freeing the people before they must spend another moment here. Forty faces. The youngest is six or seven, the oldest, forty. One of the boys’ trousers are ripped, and I can see emaciated legs through the tears. A woman’s eyes stare at nothing, her body jerking and bending beneath her clothes. A little girl draws up her knees and rocks back and forth, back and forth. Like…like Clay.
Crippled. A bloody holdful of Diante cripples. My mouth dries as a horrid dread fills me. “Are you Gods touched?” I ask.
The woman who’d been staring and jerking a moment ago vomits into a bucket, then wipes her mouth and looks up at me and nods. The commotion stirs others from their frightened silence, and within seconds, the Diante voices shout at me. Loud. Angry. Demanding. Begging. Crying.
Thank the waves I didn’t free them immediately. An angry mob can sink a ship. Stepping back, I put my palms out in what I hope is a calming gesture. “I am Captain Nile Greysik of the Ashing Kingdom. My people have taken control of the Hope from the Tirik Republic.”
The woman wails.
“I am not your enemy,” I call loudly over the woman’s screams. “The Tirik Republic captured you, not us. Tell me how you came to be here.”
More Diante begin to sob and curse, so much so that I start doubting my language skills. I don’t speak Diante well, but this isn’t high diplomacy. One of the men leaps at me, his hands going for my throat. A Spade pushes him back.
Storms and hail. I raise my voice again, searching for different words. “Silence!” I call, waiting until the worst of the shouting settles. “The Tirik took you prisoner. I am not Tirik. Do you understand?” I direct my last question to a Diante woman who holds the rocking little girl, hoping the focus will prompt an answer.
She swallows. “We are not prisoners,” she says. “The Tirik are helping us.”
I blink at her. “What?”
The woman kisses her little girl’s hair. “I am Neera. This is my daughter, Nim, and she is Gods touched.” The woman looks down, her face red to the tips of her ears as the girl scratches her nail again the deck planks, as if drawing. “But Nim’s metal gift is too great for her to handle. I wanted her free of it.”
It takes me a moment to realize the odd hitch in Neera’s voice is shame. As if admitting the burden of elemental attraction and the desire to be rid of it was akin to planning to abandon a child.
Dread gnaws my stomach while Neera seeks her next words. The Diante monks at the Metchti Monastery were the ones said to have discovered a means of taming the ailment. How did the Tirik get involved?
“A Tirik man told me that in the Republic, those who do not feel themselves worthy of the Gift the Gods bestow may pass it to another,” Neera continues. “I begged for his help, paid all I had. Please, Young Greatness, don’t take us from our course. Nim is just a baby. She can’t bear the burden. We need the Institute. Please.”
The Institute. Price’s Institute. Storms. I try to make my voice gentle. “Why did you not go to the Metchti Monastery, Neera? Why trust a Tirik man on his word?”
She frowns. “Go to the Metchti Monastery?” she repeats in confusion.
Several of the Diante snicker.
I feel an abyss forming beneath me. “The Metchti Monastery,” I repeat firmly. “In your own capital city. Where—”
“Forgive me, Greatness,” Neera says, lowering her face. “But perhaps… The Metchti Monastery translates to Temple of Dreams in your tongue. It is a concept, not an actual place.”
The abyss widens. Blood drains from my face. “There is no Metchti Monastery,” I say flatly.
Neera licks her lips. “There is, of course. Just, perhaps not in a way you think. Not in a way you might walk into with your body. Not like the Institute.”
“But in the capital…” I know arguing with Neera makes me an imbecile. But I can’t help my words. I’ve heard of it spoken of as a real place. A place with a location. And a cure. An imaginary temple has no address.
“Many of our most devout live in the capital, Young Greatness,” Neera says. “People from all over our nation travel to study with the monks there. To reach their own Metchti.”
No. NO.
I take a step back from the Diante. Sweat covers my forehead and slithers into my eyes.
“Are you all right, Young Greatness?” Neera asks. She squeezes her girl’s hand. “Will you help my Nim?”
“The Republic has no cure.” My voice is harsh, but it is the only one I can find. “They lied to you. Had you made it to your destination, they would have tortured you all.” I spin on my heel and walk out before I have to see my words register in Neera’s face.
It is all I can do to stay upright. There is no cure. No Metchti Monastery. No promise of relief, not now, not after the war, not ever. My knees buckle. Of its own accord, my head twists around looking for Domenic’s solid presence before I remember that he’s back on the Aurora and likely in shackles. Storms and hail.
At least he’s safe for now, I tell myself with as much conviction as I can muster. The one predictable thing about Rima is that he takes the protection of his own ass seriously, and will keep the Aurora on whatever course is least likely to see danger. In fact, the damn frigate is already sailing away from us, not wishing to waste anytime that could be put toward getting as much distance as possible between itself and the coming battle at the Bottleneck.
“Ma’am?” Kederic asks.
“Set course for the Bottleneck Juncture, Mr. Kederic.” My voice is hollow. “We will work watch detail out en route.”
“But…” He hesitates before adding quietly, “what are we to do with the Diante people? Will we take them into battle with us?”
“You’ve your orders, Mr. Kederic,” I snap. “Be about it. And I want to see the Tirik captain in my cabin.”
Chapter 19
Captain Quinn has more cuts and bruises than when I last saw him. Two of the larger Spades drag him into the captain’s cabin I now occupy and dump him unceremoniously onto his knees. Quinn is about twenty-five, with short-cropped light hair, a square jaw, and handsome dark eyes. His coat is ripped, and a gash runs into his hair, which is matted with blood. The rope binding his hands behind his back pulls his shoulders in a way that must be painful.
He looks up at me with a mix of fury and intelligence that makes me ashamed for allowing such treatment of a naval captain, no matter what uniform he wears. But his kind had opened fire on the Faithful’s lifeboats, and Quinn’s own man shot Catsper after claiming to have laid down arms. Worse, Quinn’s ship carries sick civilians—children—for sacrifice to the Institute.
“Tell me about your cargo,” I demand in Tirik.
His nost
rils flare. “I am carrying forty Diante Gifted,” Quinn answers in fluent Lyron. His voice is deep and measured. A professional’s voice, telling me a fact he is certain I know already. Except professionals don’t put innocent people into a floating cage.
“Why?”
“To aid them.” The bastard manages to sound like he believes his own fiction. “The Tirik Republic believes that no man should be shackled to the circumstances of his birth. Everyone deserves the same chance and opportunity as their brothers.”
“Spare me the Republic’s propaganda, sir.”
Quinn stares at me in silent defiance.
I circle around him. I’ve never interrogated a prisoner before and find myself little enjoying the process. My stomach clenches with longing for Domenic and the support his mere presence would provide. “You would have me believe that you are on a humanitarian mission, then, Mr. Quinn?”
“I would not expect any Lyron League officer to believe that a ship and crew might put themselves in harm’s way to help those born less fortunate. Your lack of faith makes it no less true, however.”
I stop before him and open my arms. “Humor me, Captain Quinn, and pretend that, despite royal blood, I somehow managed to hold on to my soul—you must be practiced in suspending disbelief, given the rubbish your superiors spout—and spell out your intentions for the Gifted for me.”
Quinn’s jaw clenches before he spits his answer. “The People’s Republic would like to see the Gifted cured of their affliction. I was taking my patients to get them help. That is all I am willing to tell you, Captain Greysik.”
“Then pray tell me why you aren’t curing your own Gifted first?” I throw up my hands. “Why do you hide the existence of your Institute and smuggle other nations’ people into the clutches of your science men?”
Quinn’s face twitches in surprise at my mention of the Institute. He shifts his shoulders, searching for a more comfortable position, though none is to be found. He considers me before speaking. “The cure is not yet perfected,” he concedes. “The Diante down there are better off with a trial treatment than nothing at all. Once we are able to isolate the right physic and make enough for the masses, we will distribute it throughout the Republic.” He bares his teeth. “Equally and fairly, regardless of birth and wealth.”
“You are torturing innocent people, sir!” I slam my palm against the desk—Quinn’s old desk. “How dare you call yourself an officer?”
He raises a brow in irony. “I am torturing no one. The Gifted are restrained for the safety of this vessel and themselves.” His voice is calm. “I note you’ve not let them run rampant over your decks quite yet either.”
My fingers curl into fists in frustration. The fragile rein that I have on my temper is slipping, which little helps my cause. “What other Tirik vessels cruise these waters?”
Quinn tries to shrug, but the ropes don’t allow it. “As an officer of the Republic Navy, I must respectfully decline to answer that.”
“Is the Devron still in the Siaman Sea?”
Silence.
“When are you expected back at the Institute?”
Quinn blinks at me like a damn owl.
One of the Spades draws a pistol from his belt and silently points it at my prisoner. Darkness clouds the boy’s face. Quinn’s man had wounded Catsper, and the Spade isn’t just willing to shoot the captain, to execute him here and now, he wants to. The Spade cocks the pistol. The small click is deafeningly loud. “Answer Captain Greysik’s question.”
Quinn turns toward the voice, registering the barrel pointed at him. The boy’s finger flexes inside the trigger guard, and Quinn flinches but reclaims himself quickly. His face is blank. Jaw clenched, Quinn lifts his chin to expose his throat. He waits, the artery on the side of his neck pulsing quick and hard.
Storms. What the bloody hell am I doing, threatening a bound prisoner with execution? And not just any prisoner but a naval officer. A captain. Self-disgust slithers over me, made worse by the small part of my heart that still wants to see the threat penetrate, longing for retribution for the Ashing lifeboats the Tirik Republic once fired on.
“Put away your weapon and cut the captain’s bonds,” I order the marine, clasping my hands behind my back. “It is the custom of the navy to accept a captured officer’s parole. Captain Quinn is to be treated with the courtesy due his rank.”
For a heartbeat, I fear the Spade will refuse, but Catsper trained his boys to follow orders. Uncocking his weapon, the marine takes out a knife. He nicks Quinn’s flesh as he cuts the rope, then reclaims his post, staring straight ahead.
Quinn winces slightly and rubs his wrists.
“Sit.” I point to a chair and wait for him to comply. There is little point in pursuing the previous questions, and I do not bother trying. “What is your relationship with Captain Rima?” I ask instead.
A corner of Quinn’s mouth twitches up. “I thought you knew by now. Captain Rima is…was in my employ.”
My mouth dries. The riches of Rima’s cabin. A wife with a lifestyle kings could little afford. The frantic insistence to keep a schedule. The attempt to squeeze me for sensitive military information. Rima wasn’t running a little side business. He was working for the enemy.
“How much did Captain Rima know of your cargo?” I ask, the mask of professionalism holding itself by a thread.
Quinn’s jaw tightens. “Do not do that again.”
I frown. “Ask you questions?”
“Call the Gifted cargo.”
I pull back from his anger. The outburst could cost him much, and he knows it. “The words were ill chosen,” I say honestly. “How much did Captain Rima know of the Gifted?”
He nods, accepting the new words. “In such arrangements, information flows one way, Ms. Greysik. I paid Rima four thousand gold coins for each passage. That is all he needed to know.”
A yearly salary for a week’s worth of work. Even if Rima knew no details, he would have known no one paid such sums for escorting rice. Bastard. I take a step back and compose myself. I can do nothing about Rima right now. “How did you come by this assignment?” I ask.
“I volunteered.” Quinn turns to look out the window. The Aurora is far from sight, and the Hope skips forward easily on the waves. “The danger of crossing Lyron-infested waters in a small, minimally armed ship, riding in the very wake of a Lyron frigate…” He smiles wryly at me, and I acknowledge the situation with a nod. “I found it exhilarating with its challenge. And I was helping all our nations. Elemental attraction is a disease that affects us all, Lyron, Tirik, and Diante alike.”
“Yes, it does.” Despite his allegiance, it is difficult to hate Quinn. I’ve met officers like Quinn before. On our own side. I sigh and start for the door, glancing at the Spades before leaving. “Bring Logan Price down to speak with Captain Quinn, if you please. I’ve some things to attend to.”
The Hope’s small sick berth was never meant to accommodate damage of battle, but the woman in a bloody apron who rules over the domain has plainly seen worse. Tirik and Lyron patients lie side by side. I briefly wonder whether the Spades intended to leave the doctor with her duties or if not even they could stand between her and her patients. Seeing me, she takes a step forward. “What’s the injury?” she asks, examining me with her gaze and already dismissing the complaint as something that can wait.
“I’m Nile,” I say in Tirik. “I’m the captain of the Hope.”
The doctor wipes her hands on her apron, and a wave of tension ripples over her face. “Doctor Mattia.”
I nod in acknowledgment. “I am looking for my marine, Doctor. The one shot by a Tirik officer after the ship surrendered.”
“Commissioner Jaquis,” the doctor replies.
“What?”
“The shooter. He wasn’t a naval officer. He was the People’s Commissioner.”
I blow air through my teeth. “A fine distinction, no doubt. What of my man?”
“In the back.” The doctor’s hand go
es into her pocket and comes out with a bit of bloody metal, which she drops into my palm. A pistol shot she’d dug out of flesh. “He tolerated the surgery well but has been trying to kill himself ever since.”
“Thank you.” I close my hand around the slug and start to make my way between the wounded.
“For whatever it means to you,” the doctor says with quiet but ill-concealed contempt, “when Captain Quinn killed a People’s Commissioner, he signed his own death warrant.”
My steps falter. “He killed a man who was violating the terms of surrender,” I tell the doctor. “That shot saved the Hope’s crew from massacre. No one would fault him for that.”
The look in the doctor’s eyes takes a few heartbeats to sink in. Yes. The Tirik would punish Quinn for raising a hand against the government’s watchdog, no matter how good a reason he had for it. It is the reality of Tirik politics. Of all politics. And, as always, it’s the decent people who pay the price.
As promised, I find Catsper in the back. Bandages seeping blood cover his left breast and shoulder. For a moment, I think his body is jerking in convulsions, but then see that the marine is struggling against restraints. Grabbing a knife from my boot, I snap the ties holding his wrists and ankles to the cot.
Catsper shoots upright, his face pale. And angry and more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen. His chest rises and falls steadily, but even I can tell the movement is too quick.
“Easy.” I put my hand on his good shoulder. “How do you feel?”
Catsper grabs my wrist, pressing too cleanly into a tender point to be a coincidence. “I’m fine.”
I hiss in pain. No wonder the doctor found it simpler to restrain him. “What’s wrong with you? We’ve taken a Tirik warship with two dozen boys as our boarding force, and we’ve been running to stay ahead of one disaster after another since setting foot aboard. There is more danger looming ahead. Pray tell me, how is asking after your injuries an insult of mythical proportion?”
