by Will Wight
“It is good to see you smiling again, Captain! The worse life gets, the better it is to smile!”
True to his word, Urzaia was grinning as he loomed over Calder, proudly displaying his two missing teeth. He planted hands on his hips, displaying his huge arms—one wrapped in leather, the other in gold-scaled hide.
Calder considered explaining about Petal and the wine, but decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Knowing Urzaia, he might think it was a great idea.
“A week is enough time for grieving,” Urzaia said, leaning back with his elbows against the railing. “Now it is time to move on.”
Calder turned his manic grin on his cook. “You think so, do you?”
“You misunderstand me, I think. Do not move on to a different wife—I have found it is best to do that slowly. Move on to the next step.”
“The next step?”
Urzaia’s smile was almost as broad as Calder’s. “Vengeance.”
Calder hadn’t thought of anything else for the past week. He wasn’t sure who deserved revenge the most.
The Consultant, Shera? She was the one who had attacked them while they were sleeping, taking his wife from him.
But Consultants didn’t work on their own. Who had hired her? Surely, they were the ones who really deserved a lead ball in the heart.
Then there was Jerri herself.
She had betrayed him. Lied to him for years. Even as they had fought against the Sleepless, it turns out she was one of them. And he had married her!
The best revenge might be to leave her where she is.
He couldn’t make himself believe that. If he chose to hurt Jyrine the way she’d hurt him, he wanted to see it. How could he be satisfied when he didn’t even know if she was alive or dead? Besides, he couldn’t leave her in the hands of the Consultants. They might hurt her.
Calder didn’t even understand his own feelings anymore. He only knew that he would never be satisfied until he found Jerri.
Urzaia pulled out one of his black-hafted hatchets, laying it across his palms. “It was my fault.”
Calder turned on him, surprised. Thanks to Petal’s potion, he didn’t look shocked—he looked delighted. “Yours?”
The Woodsman looked up, and Calder realized he was talking to a different person. Not his cheerful cook, Urzaia, but the Izyrian gladiator. Banished to the arena in the hopes that the fights would kill him, Urzaia Woodsman had managed to survive for over a year against unstoppable odds.
And a single assassin had rendered him unconscious from the shadows.
“No, Urzaia, no. If she had stayed to fight you, you would have torn her apart, and she knew that. It’s why she took you out first.”
Urzaia looked down at his hatchet. “There were poisoners in the arena. They tried to hide and poison me. It has never stopped me before.”
“Trust me—”
The cook cut him off. “And it will not stop me now. Jyrine has secrets, even from you. This is not good, but every man has secrets. You two will talk, and you will work it out. Once I have killed the Consultant and brought Jyrine home.”
Calder simply nodded, grinning like an idiot.
“A Champion does not fail. Even one in disgrace, you understand?”
Urzaia slid his hatchet back over his shoulder. “I like you like this, smiling all the time. This is how you should be. I will tell Petal to drug you more.”
Only a few minutes later, he got another visit, and this one was unexpected. Tristania walked up the short ladder to the stern deck, standing by the wheel and looking at him.
Just looking.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, smiling involuntarily.
He was not surprised when the Silent One said nothing. She simply stood there, watching him. Bandages shuffled as she shifted her weight, and her coat flapped behind her in the sea breeze like a flag. Little wisps of black hair stuck out of the wrapping covering her head, and her eyes…peeking out from between two white strips of cloth, her eyes were soft and sympathetic.
Which made her silence even stranger.
He coughed politely, trying to signal her to do something, though he was afraid his alchemy-induced smile was sending the wrong message. After a few seconds of standing and looking, she reached into her coat and pulled out…a blanket.
It wasn’t particularly cold out, but he wondered if she wanted to sit on the deck. Maybe make it a picnic of sorts, and stare at him all afternoon. He didn’t object to women looking at him, usually, but the thought seemed quite disturbing.
But she didn’t spread the blanket out on the deck. Instead, she wrapped it around his shoulders, pressing in the corners like a mother tucking her child in to sleep.
He wasn’t quite sure why, until she finished, patting him on the shoulder. She let her hand linger there, squeezing as if to give him strength, and then left.
For some reason, he had to blink back tears.
Hours passed after Tristania’s visit, Calder’s peace was not disturbed by anything more pressing than deadly metal spikes. The sun glowed red behind him, and faint white lights appeared on the Silver Spires.
He understood the rumors now. The lights did look like stars, and they didn’t seem to be simple quicklamps set into the silver. Thousands of white sparks covered each towering spire, swirling slightly like fireflies trapped in a mirror. The show was faint, competing with the setting sun for attention, but he could easily imagine that the sight would be breathtaking in full darkness.
Not that he had any intention of remaining in this maze when night fell. The Spires would light his way, certainly, but he feared they would play tricks on his eyes, driving him to impale his ship. Even worse, he could think of several creatures in the Aion that hunted by night, lured to a glow on the surface of the water. They would be swirling around the Spires only minutes after sunset, hunting.
At last, the Spires had begun to thin. Only one tilted silver spike loomed ahead of him, with another passing beneath. After that, they’d be clear.
Calder’s attention sharpened. He’d learned the hard way that you had to focus most carefully when it seemed you were safe. That’s where a trap would do the most harm. It helped that Petal’s potion had finally started to wear off, so his lips only occasionally smiled without permission.
He scanned the water for suspicious shadows, keeping half his mind on the Lyathatan. If anything disturbed the Elderspawn, he wanted to know about it as soon as possible.
So he didn’t notice Andel until the Quartermaster stood two feet away, brushing a smudge from his white sleeve.
“Sir,” Andel said, by way of greeting.
“Andel.”
Normally they would have exchanged jokes, but Calder was focused on navigation. It was the perfect excuse. This was the conversation Calder had dreaded, and the one that he’d known was coming for over a week.
No one ever liked hearing ‘I told you so.’
“The others have all said their piece by now,” Andel said, still looking straight at the darkening horizon.
“Not Petal.”
“She didn’t drug you. That should tell you something.”
“She did drug me!”
“You’re still standing, so it hardly counts.”
Calder gave a smile that was only half potion-induced. This easy, comfortable banter reminded him of the old Andel. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he feared; Andel might not have a well-deserved lecture in mind after all.
“I’ve waited a week to speak with you,” Andel went on, and Calder slumped against the wheel.
“Must we, Andel? I know what you want to say. How about we both pretend you’ve already said it?”
Andel Petronus was many things, but he was not easily dissuaded. “You’re angry right now. I don’t think you know who deserves it most.”
“Thank you for that analysis. If we could save the rest of this conversation for another time...”
“I’m sorry that we don’t know if Jyrine is dead or alive. I wis
h we could have dealt with this another way. But for your sake, I am glad she’s gone.”
The potion twitched Calder’s lips up, and he embraced it, baring a shark’s grin at his Quartermaster. He sent his Intent down, into the boards of The Testament, and his Soulbound Vessel responded.
The seamless wood of the ship’s deck rippled under Andel’s feet like the surface of a struck lake. He stumbled and fell over backwards, hat rolling off his bald head.
Calder leaned over him. “Do not say that again, Andel. Not to me, and not on my ship.”
From his seat on the deck, Andel made himself comfortable. He crossed his legs under him and looked up, seemingly unmoved. “Years ago, when I was a ship’s boy on a merchant vessel out of Dylia, the First Mate of that ship took me in. Raised me like a father. From him, I learned something very important. More than enforcing the Captain’s orders, more than keeping the rest of the crew in line, the Mate’s job is to keep the Captain in check. It’s to tell the Captain when he’s on the wrong course, and when he’s going to get himself and everyone else on board killed.”
Andel’s expression was calm, but firm. He was merely stating a fact. “Captain, you’re on the wrong course. You’re going to kill us.”
Speaking of courses, Calder reminded himself to check their heading. He busied himself at the wheel with a compass, checking their position and scanning the water for any outlying Spires. It seemed they were mostly in the clear.
Which meant he had nothing to distract him from Andel.
His emotions demanded that he shout and rail at the man, maybe use the deck to toss him around some more. The waters seemed relatively clear: maybe a dunk would teach him that Calder was the one in charge here.
But the greater part of him recognized the childlike impulse for what it was, and crushed it. Andel’s advice had saved his life on more than one occasion.
What was the point of having a cool-headed advisor if you never listened to his advice?
He prepared himself with a deep breath. “I apologize, Mister Petronus. Please continue.”
Andel bowed slightly, still seated. “You know that I’ve never trusted Jyrine. And you know that I had my reasons.”
Despite his attempts to ignore it, anger still seethed in Calder’s chest. Was Andel really trying to provoke him?
“Continue,” Calder said tightly.
“I am setting all of that aside right now. Let’s assume that Jyrine was completely justified in keeping secrets, and that her loyalty is beyond question.”
“Yes. Let’s assume that.”
“Then we’re left with a few things to consider. First, why did the Consultant take Jyrine captive? For that matter, why did an assassin capture anyone at all?”
It was a good question, but not a new one. “We’ve run down that road already, Andel.”
“All right, then let’s move past the Consultant’s intentions. What are the actual results of her actions? She has someone to interrogate, so we can assume that she’ll know everything about our capabilities.”
Calder tried very hard not to picture Jerri’s interrogation.
“And you are left in the position of wanting to recover your wife, more than anything else. More than delivering the passenger. More than getting paid. More, even, than arriving safely at our destination. One way or another, that means that you will be trying to speak with Shera. True so far?”
“True enough,” Calder admitted. He hadn’t thought of it in so many words, but all of his plans for Shera the Consultant involved capturing her, or else tricking her into spilling Jerri’s location.
“If she had not captured Jyrine, would you care about talking with her?”
With an assassin? He wouldn’t want to get within earshot of the woman.
“No, I would not.”
“Instead, how would you deal with this woman?”
Calder considered for a moment, letting The Testament drift of its own accord out onto the relatively clear ocean. The Lyathatan had begun to sink back into sleep.
“Avoid her if at all possible,” Calder said at last. “I’d try to dock somewhere she didn’t expect, stay somewhere she wouldn’t think to check, move the crew as a whole instead of splitting up, so we weren’t vulnerable. If that didn’t work, I’d try to trap her. Pretend we thought we were safe, and have Urzaia and Foster ambush her.”
Andel nodded, still seated. “And now, instead of doing what the trained assassin least expects, we’re going exactly where she wants us to go.”
Realization settled on Calder’s shoulders like a sack of bricks. Andel was right. They were playing right into the enemy’s hands, which he would never have done if Jerri weren’t in danger.
But...they had to. This was the only way to find Jerri.
“That,” Andel said, “is how you’re going to get us all killed.”
For the next few minutes, with Andel sitting next to him, Calder steered in relative quiet. The wind flapped in the sails, and the waves still lapped against the hull. Behind him, Naberius and Tristania chatted about something. The clink of iron told him that Foster was working downstairs, and a snatch of some Izyrian battle-song meant that Urzaia had begun working on dinner.
Calder’s thoughts ran in circles. He didn’t want to put the crew in danger, but he didn’t want to leave Jerri in danger. He was making no progress when he finally sighed and looked down at Andel.
“You’re right, Andel. I’ll think about it.”
“We’ve got a little time. Assuming you don’t drive us straight into a reef, we’re not likely to die tonight.”
From up in the crow’s nest, a deafening masculine voice bellowed out, “DIE TONIGHT.”
Then a black shadow bobbed down, fluttering across the red-gold sky until Shuffles landed on Calder’s shoulder. It turned its scowling black eyes to Calder, wiggling its tentacles.
In case he didn’t hear it the first time, it shouted, “DIE TONIGHT” one more time, straight into his ear.
Andel jumped to his feet, placing the white hat on his head. In volume no less than the Elderspawn, he announced, “Danger! All hands on deck! All hands on deck! That means you too, Petal!”
Foster was already climbing up to the crow’s nest, musket and powder horn in hand. Urzaia strode up to the bow, a black hatchet in each hand. Petal snuck up the ladder carrying a crate of bottles, a rat curled up on top of them like a sleeping cat.
Naberius marched over, wearing his red suit again and resting on hand on his pistol. Tristania followed him, staring through her bandages into the waters.
“What danger?” Naberius asked. “What do you see?”
“Nothing,” Calder said. The Aion Sea seemed to be playing nice, for the moment.
“Then why—”
Andel jerked a thumb at Calder’s shoulder. “The Elderspawn only wakes up from a nap if it thinks we’re all going to die.”
“And it’s in a good mood this time,” Calder added. “That means it’s nearby.”
On his chiseled actor’s face, Naberius’ expression of confusion looked like it had come off of a classical painting: Portrait of a Hero in Distress, perhaps.
Distantly, a storm of glowing, sulfur-yellow clouds began to gather on the dark eastern horizon. They pulled together, like threads of shining unnatural mist.
“Name an Elder, and he appears,” Calder muttered.
“Wormcloud,” Andel announced, and the crew all made some sound in acknowledgement.
Naberius cleared his throat. “What in the Emperor’s name is a ‘worm cloud?’”
There was no point in trying to outrun a wormcloud—it would only follow them—so Calder steered straight for it. “If I’m not mistaken, Naberius, you’re about to find out.”
~~~
When the worms began to rain from the sky, the crew of The Testament was ready.
Calder kept his three-cornered hat on and his cutlass in hand, waiting for the worms to drop onto the deck. They landed with a splat, little fat grubs the size o
f a man’s foot, with a single needle on their heads. Yellow light, exactly matching the unnatural cloud overhead, rippled inside their squishy bodies. They squeaked while squirming across the deck, searching for the nearest source of warm blood.
He slashed one in half, spilling its luminescent yellow fluid over the deck. He crushed another under his boot, and sent a mental pulse to the ship that made the railing surge up, tossing a third worm into the sea.
“Three!” he called.
Petal moved from worm to worm with a rubber-bulb dropper, planting a single drop of acid on the back of each creature. She spoke weakly as she moved. “Four...five...six...”
“Five!” Andel announced, kicking a worm over the edge.
Urzaia did not wear a hat. He stood with a hatchet in each hand, pacing the deck with eyes on the sky. When a worm fell anywhere close to him, one of his blades left a black blur, and two squishy halves fell to the wood. “I believe that makes eleven!” he yelled, splattered with drops of luminous blood.
A musket cracked overhead, and one of the worms exploded into goo. It had been distressingly close to Calder’s face.
He winced back, glaring up at the crow’s nest. “Seriously, Duster? Get down here and use your boots like an ordinary human being.”
Foster lifted his second musket, tracking another worm. “Sorry, Captain. Every problem is best solved with firepower.”
For the first time in over a week, Calder finally let himself relax. Wormclouds weren’t the friendliest things in the world, but they were among the least harmful hazards of the Aion. Over the years, he’d begun to look forward to the break.
Naberius and Tristania, by contrast, were standing back-to-back on the same cask. The Silent One held a reversed broom, and was using the wooden haft to crush any worms that got too close. The Chronicler held a pistol in each shaking hand, though at least he wasn’t firing and reloading as fast as he could, like Foster.
“Is this an attack?” Naberius asked, his voice higher-pitched than normal.
Calder swept a worm from his hat and then impaled it with his cutlass. “Twelve! And no, Naberius, this is the Aion.”
“I’ve heard that Wormclouds stem from Kthanikahr,” Andel said, as he casually strolled over a pair of worms, popping them. “That when the Emperor struck him down, the Great Elder personally blighted the weather.”
