by Alex Lidell
Zolan two, me zero. Sum wagered: Domenic.
Chapter 14
Kyra
The ship was alive. The seamen around Kyra certainly thought of the Helix as a living being, and her constant creaks, moans, and shifts lent weight to the sailors’ sentiments. It was dawn, and Kyra was shivering on deck because Nile was already up, fully dressed, and inspecting a crew that rolled their eyes at her back. The princess moved as if a wasp had flown into her shirt collar and now propelled her about without pause, checking the ropes securing the Helix’s black iron guns, offering a hand up to a fallen ship’s body, ordering knots untied and redone, asking after the helmsman’s family, inquiring how the gunner came to earn a scar across his cheek. Every time Kyra blinked, Nile was in a new place.
Except one, where she never ventured.
At the very front of the ship, Dana stood dressed in his full kit, as he had all last evening and the entire night. Ten hours now, by Kyra’s reckoning. A punishment from Zolan for having done or not done something Kyra didn’t understand.
For his part, Zolan stood at ease on the quarterdeck, sliding an occasional exasperated gaze over Nile and a more thoughtful one over Dana. The Helix had set sail a few hours earlier, the canvas sheets filling with such a pop that Kyra thought a gun had gone off by happenstance. Now, the Helix headed south toward the Diante empire, Lyron’s jagged coastline slithering away on their left, the open ocean pulsating on the right, so large and vast, there was no end to it. A shifting, deadly blue cloth that went on forever.
“Clear off!”
Kyra jumped out of the way as a sailor wearing only white slop trousers and a neckerchief lumbered past with an enormous piece of wood balanced on his shoulders.
“Pardon me!” she called after him.
The man raised a free hand in acknowledgment, his rolling gait steady on the rocking deck even as a strong wave lurched the ship.
Kyra stumbled back, gasping out another apology upon colliding with a young man carrying a water pail. The sailor’s eyes widened, the pail clattering to the deck and drenching Kyra’s shoes. The man himself wore none, most of the seamen preferring to stay barefoot.
“Your ppp-pp pardon, mum,” he stammered.
“Not at all, my fault,” Kyra said quickly, seeking a better place to stand. Less than a day aboard, and she longed for anything that stayed still. The only place on the whole that seemed safe from rushing bodies was beside Zolan. Taking a breath, Kyra set course there.
“I would recommend against that.” Quinn’s soft voice sounded beside Kyra, the man’s open palm offering an alternative path, this one heading toward the rail.
Kyra’s eyes widened.
“You will not fall overboard,” he said with a small, kind smile. “Not in this sea. But I can stand beside you for a spell if you would like. I believe you will find the rail is a wiser place to take the air than the quarterdeck.”
Kyra nodded, gripping the man’s offered arm so hard, she likely bruised his skin. As Nile’s guardsman, Quinn had no sea duties aboard the ship, and his eyes, however unobtrusively, never strayed far from the princess. “Might I ask you a few questions about the ship?” Kyra asked softly, hesitating until Quinn gave an encouraging nod. The questions sounded naïve even to her, but the issue was baffling. “Is Nile a lieutenant or captain? I’ve heard sailors say both.”
Quinn chuckled. “Ah, the traditions of the navy. She is both. By rank, Nile is a lieutenant and would be junior to both Mr. Dana and Mr. Zolan outside the Helix. By position, Nile is in charge of this ship and is thus addressed as captain, just as she was on the Eclipse. While she is the Helix’s captain, she is temporarily superior to Dana and Zolan both. It is an unusual situation, but it happens.”
“Are Dana and Zolan not captains as well?” asked Kyra.
“Lieutenant Dana was the captain of the Raptor,” said Quinn. “Captain Zolan was the captain of the Lily. Since having two people with the title captain aboard the Helix would be confusing, Zolan has been temporarily demoted to commander.”
Kyra brows knitted together. “And as the Helix’s captain, what is Nile supposed to be doing just now?”
“There is no one task,” said Quinn. “A captain ensures everyone on the ship is performing their duties, oversees discipline, makes decisions on how to handle the vessel. But truly, it is about directing the crew the way a conductor leads an orchestra. One must both keep the rhythm and know when to break stride—and ensure the musicians follow along with you when you do. ”
Kyra flinched as a bit of salt spray bounced from the Helix’s hull and into her face. Some ways down the deck, Rum and Catsper made their appearance, the dog clearing space around himself without trying. Kyra looked back at Quinn. “And is Nile doing all that well?”
Quinn’s jaw tightened, his words slow and carefully chosen. “Nile is attempting to show the orchestra players that she understands music, but she is fighting a headwind. The admiralty and Mr. Zolan have undermined her authority so deeply, the men see no reason to concern themselves with someone they feel little belongs on a man-of-war. Which—”
Kyra screamed as something very dead and bloody plopped down at her feet. Disgust tightened her throat, and the sudden copper tinge in the air made bile crawl up Kyra’s gullet. Around her, men turned to see what the fuss was about, but Kyra little cared. “What… Is… That?” Kyra’s breath came in gasps.
The bearer of the bloody dead thing, Rum, cocked his ear and blinked large brown eyes in confusion.
“A rat,” Catsper, striding in Rum’s wake, clarified cheerily. “It appears Rum took it upon himself to fetch you breakfast. Really, you should be honored.”
A few paces away, the young seaman whose pail Kyra had toppled, whistled with appreciation. “It’s a nice, fff-fat miller, mum. If you don’t want him, c-could I…”
“It’s all yours,” Kyra rasped. She would not vomit. Not in front of all these men.
“Thanks, mum.” The seaman knuckled his forehead and reached for the kill, only to jump back as Rum bared his full set of glinting canines at the intruder. A snap of the dog’s powerful jaws had the sailor find work in the rigging.
Catsper stuck his hands into his pockets. “I think Rum intends his present for you specifically.”
Kyra’s hand rose to her mouth, her dignity a forgotten asset. “Please…please get that away,” she asked Catsper, who obligingly reached down and picked the dead rodent up by its tail, swinging it slightly.
“Mr. Catsper.” The voice, strong and even, belonged to Zolan. Kyra hadn’t noticed the commander approaching and now felt her muscles clench like a giant fist, though the first officer only made a polite leg in her direction. Coming to stand beside the marine, Zolan put his hands behind his back. “I could ask the cook to have the miller cooked for you, if you’d like. Meanwhile, my lieutenant of the marines has inquired about your expertise. I would consider it a personal favor if you might spare some time to share your thoughts with him and the others. Think on, please.”
Zolan walked away as quietly as he came, and Kyra turned a questioning gaze to Quinn. “What was that?”
Quinn snorted. “That was a very well-worded ‘quit fooling around on my deck and get to work.’ It is typically accompanied by a suggestion that employment can be found if one has no task to occupy his time.”
Catsper got a good swing on the rat’s tail, whistled to the seaman who’d wanted the creature, and launched the rodent into the seaman’s hands. The humor faded from the marine’s eyes. “Does someone want to explain to me why a man capable of doing that won’t extend a hand to a young captain so desperately trying to contribute to her ship?”
“To Nile and Dana both,” Kyra said, nodding to the officer still standing rigid. If Zolan was ignoring Nile, it seemed Dana could not take a breath without being punished for it.
Catsper shook his head, a slash of fury rising to the surface for a moment before he turned to walk away. “There is nothing similar about it,” Catsper said over his shoul
der. “Zolan will put Dana back together after he breaks him. Nile he might just leave in shattered pieces.”
Chapter 15
Nile
The only task more difficult than pretending not to hear snide comments and see men sway their hips mockingly behind my back is pretending not to see that Domenic is shaking from cold and fatigue. Striding over to a gaggle of four middies tormenting trigonometry with chalk and slate, I study their work over their shoulders. Zolan had instructed the youngsters, all aged twelve to fourteen, earlier this morning and explained the numbers so well, I’m still rehearsing his approach in my mind. Storms, but everything about Zolan is bloody perfect. The ship’s stores, the watch bills, the repairs, the discipline. Without taking more than an occasional stroll from the quarterdeck, the man leaves nothing undone.
The man leaves nothing for me to do.
No. That isn’t true. Zolan leaves no captain’s oversight duties undone, but there is always work on a ship. If it comes to that, I’ll scrub decks before I’ll hide in surrender and leave the seamanship to the men. “Your setup is correct,” I tell a freckled middie who is about to erase his whole slate in exasperation. “You simply forgot to carry a two here.”
The boy erases the slate anyway and gives me an elaborate bow. “Your Highness. It is good of you to come up and take the air,” he says loudly enough for Zolan, standing two paces away, to hear. “Shall I fetch you a warmer coat, though? The wind will pick up shortly, no doubt.”
My blood heats, and I almost snap at a bosun’s mate to bend the boy over a gun for insolence, but the satisfied tinge in Zolan’s eyes halts my tongue. The boy is simply seeking Zolan’s approval, and I’m not about to make a thirteen-year-old into a pawn between officers.
“Mr. Zolan,” I say instead. “Might I impose on a moment of your time, sir. In private.”
The man dutifully follows me down to the captain’s cabin. The large space is by far the most luxurious I’ve ever had to myself aboard a man-of-war, with a tall window, intricately carved wooden chairs around a table large enough to accommodate ship’s officers for dinner, and even a separate partition for the steward. I didn’t bring enough possessions with me to outfit the space, though Kyra managed to arrange my books, journals, and weapons in a way that makes my lack of foresight appear artistically calculated. Instead of a marine sentry who would usually stand outside a captain’s door, Quinn—who followed Zolan and me down the hatch—now takes the post.
I sit on a hard, high-backed chair, motioning Zolan to do likewise. Ten years my senior, Zolan fills the cabin with his steady presence, his dark eyes darting to the window to check the seas and sky even as he brings his attention to me. Unlike Domenic, whose uniform is forever perfect, Zolan’s blue coat and white shirt look like quarterdeck veterans. Clean, well-fitting, creased to be comfortable. If Domenic wears his coat as the honored badge of office, Zolan’s clothing is a second skin, the sea-hardened body inside it speaking for itself. “Could we speak plainly, sir?” I ask quietly.
“Of course, Your Highness,” says Zolan and waits.
Right. My heart taps my ribs in a rapid staccato, but I’m empty of other ideas. Honesty it is, then. “I’ve never led a ship this size. Show me what to do, Zolan. Tell me how to earn the men’s trust. How to earn yours.” There it is. The truth laid bare. My breath stills as I await his reply.
It’s quick to come and as matter-of-fact and even as Zolan’s common tone. “This is a four—perhaps five—week cruise to the Diante Empire. That might be long enough for me to turn Mr. Dana into the officer he should be, but I don’t have time to teach a girl to play captain, and I find the prospect a poor use of energy and resources. I promise that nothing is required of you on this voyage to ensure the Helix’s safe and efficient operation and respectfully suggest you spend the time preparing for the diplomatic aspect of your mission.”
I swallow, absorbing the blow as I force my chin to stay raised, my voice to keep an even tone that matches Zolan’s. “I fully understand you are capable of sailing the Helix without my assistance, Mr. Zolan. I’m suggesting that I can contribute to an already well-run ship to make it better, and that it would be more efficient if you shared your thoughts and expertise with me than if I continued reinventing the wheel.”
“If you would like to contribute, then keep your steward and preferably yourself scarce on deck. I’ve a ship full of young men, and the presence of pretty young women is bound to create discipline problems. Whether they direct ungentlemanly remarks toward the two of you or start fighting amongst each other, the result is the same—floggings that do not need to happen. If you truly wish to help, Your Highness, that is the greatest service you can offer.”
“Should I stay belowdecks, then?” Kyra asks that evening when I tell her, Catsper, and Quinn of my conversation with the first officer over a shared late-night supper. Outside the window, the ships of Admiral Brice’s squadron have hung their lanterns, which sway like fireflies over the darkness of the ocean.
“Absolutely,” Catsper replies immediately, swallowing a piece of stewed meat as if he hasn’t seen food in days.
I kick him. “No,” I tell Kyra, tasting my own salty meal. Unlike the marine, I feel the need to chew before swallowing. “The men can find it within themselves to think with their brains instead of their breeches. If they do not, they will answer to me long before Zolan gets his hands on them.”
Kyra’s lips press together, and she sets a silver teaspoon spinning like a top on the table. “I don’t like Zolan,” she says quietly, her hand closing around a mug of tea. The stir of my magic tells me that Kyra is heating up the liquid even before the small bubbles of boiling water rush to the tea’s surface. “He is too handsome for his own good. Handsome men are used to getting their way.” Kyra pushes the now-steaming tea into my hands.
I’m poised to flinch away but find the mug itself only lukewarm.
“I focus the heat on a point well away from my hands. Keeps me from getting burned,” Kyra says, her gaze on the still-spinning silver spoon. “Forgive my ignorance, but who is in charge of the ship now? Is it Nile or Mr. Zolan?”
I hesitate, taking a careful sip of tea to buy myself time.
“Nile is,” Quinn steps in to answer, his voice confident. “She is the Helix’s captain, and Zolan will follow direct orders or risk being charged with mutiny.”
Kyra stops her spoon and stares at me. “Then why in the stars’ name do you listen to the bastard at all?”
I give Quinn a sidelong look. The naval structure is difficult to explain when it functions as intended and even more complex in this perversion. “Quinn is right—Zolan can’t negate my power to give orders, but he can and does make those orders utterly irrelevant. Decisions a first officer would typically consult with the captain on—from setting sail to addressing conflicts within the crew—Zolan resolves before I even know enough to weigh in on. The small things left for me to do are, in the grand course of things, irrelevant.”
Except one. Domenic. And I can’t interfere with that. My stomach clenches, and it’s a fight to keep my face and hands still. Domenic is the one who wanted to serve under Zolan, who thinks Zolan is the storms’ gift to mankind. Domenic made his own bed, and there isn’t room for me in it. Even if it’s now filled with nails and nettle that he doesn’t deserve.
Kyra’s dark eyes pierce me. I’ve not told her about my relationship with Tam and Domenic, but I wonder whether she hasn’t learned more than I think from sharing our company these weeks. Kyra’s voice shifts from curiosity to instruction. “So order Zolan to stop deciding things without you.”
I blow out a long breath, reminding myself that Kyra can’t actually read my thoughts. We were talking about the crew; the question easily follows that conversation. “Zolan has the crew and ship tuned as perfectly as a violin,” I say firmly. “I’m not going to break the Helix for the sake of my pride. I’ll overrule Zolan if I feel the ship or its mission are in danger, but short of that, I’ll follo
w the old-fashioned route—show the crew I’m hardworking and competent and worthy of their trust.”
“Because that has worked so well for the past three days.” Catsper stretches like a cat, pushing away his long-empty bowl. “If you are so intent on showing someone your skill, how about showing me whether you remember which end of a blade is the sharp one?” He glances over at Kyra. “Wouldn’t hurt you to join either. With a year or two of training, you might be able to fight off a four-year-old child without help.”
Kyra ignores him, and I sigh, shaking my head. I wish I could take the time to spar, but there are too many things to be done—whether Zolan thinks I need to do them or not.
The wind is with us the following day, filling the sails and chasing clouds across the sky. I’m on my way to deck, walking past the officer’s gun room—the one place on the ship where tradition prohibits a captain from entering without invitation—when Zolan’s voice breaches the closed door and stops me in my tracks.
“Mr. Dana.” The first officer does not sound happy. Again.
I stop, locating a problem with my boot buckles that must be attended to immediately. Yes, tradition also frowns on eavesdropping, but I’m not quite that pious. On the other side of the thin bulkhead, a chair scrapes as if being moved to let someone stand.
“Sir?” Domenic’s tightly reined voice betrays no emotion.
“Return to deck and run the gun drill again,” says Zolan. “Use the midshipmen. If you can’t manage to get a basic broadside fired within a respectable time frame, you might need to reconsider your career choice.”
Storms. Zolan has been tormenting that drill for three of the four days we’ve been at sea, and the crew’s progress has already exceeded reasonable expectations. I’m in full support of striving to do better still, but surely, berating an officer for failing to deliver a miracle takes things too far. Especially after said officer had been made to stand watch all night again for giving too many orders when supervising the Helix’s change of tack.
