Tired of baiting him, she drained her mug, then placed it in the deckhouse rack for retrieval later. Burrell turned toward the hatch, but instead Ysobel led the way to the prow, stepping carefully around the work crews.
The seas were still rough after yesterday’s storms, but Ysobel’s sea legs had never deserted her, and she made her way without resorting to the handrails. Burrell proved equally adept, reinforcing her belief that he was more sailor than soldier.
As she reached the prow, she looped her right arm around the deck rail, bracing her feet as she turned her back to the spray that swept over the deck each time the prow sliced through the waves.
Burrell stood beside her, holding the rail with both hands. “This isn’t the place for this,” he said, his voice raised to carry above the sound of the spray.
“I like it.” She felt more comfortable above deck than below, where who knows what reception awaited her. A half dozen of his marines already in her cabin waiting to take her in chains? It was not beyond the realm of possibility.
“What was so urgent that it could not wait?” she prompted.
“Those weapons were not in your orders,” he said.
“Neither was there anything forbidding them,” she countered. She watched his face, trying to get a sense of his character. Old for the rank he claimed, it was possible that he was as much a victim of Quesnel’s schemes as she was—another enemy to be disposed of. But it was equally likely that he was Quesnel’s man, ready to carry out his own secret orders to ensure her failure.
How he reacted to the ballistae was a test—unless, of course, he was clever enough to see this for what it was.
“You’ve stolen armaments that the ministry needs for its own ships—”
“There was no theft,” Ysobel said, drawing herself to her full height.
“Then where did they come from?”
“Unlike the navy, merchants rely upon themselves. My warehouses hold more than you would imagine, and can supply whatever my ships need,” she said. Though technically the ballistae had belonged to the house of Flordelis until she had traded her remaining favors for their loan. Her orders from Quesnel allowed her to equip her own ship at her own expense, though he might have phrased those orders differently if he suspected she had access to weaponry.
“These ballistae will not help you take Gallifrey harbor,” he said. It was not quite an accusation.
“They do no harm,” she replied. “They give my crew something to occupy their attention on the voyage.”
“But you still intend to carry out your orders?”
“Of course. And you?”
He merely nodded, tight-lipped.
“That’s not enough,” she said. “On my ship, you and your marines are under my command. So I ask your solemn word, will you support me as I take Gallifrey harbor?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “As long as this ship keeps course for Gallifrey, I will not interfere.”
So he thought her likely to make a run for it, perhaps to turn pirate aided by her new toys. A reasonable assumption, given what he must have been told about her. Still, it seemed that he was prepared to play his role, at least for the present, and that was all that she needed.
It was telling that he had not asked how she planned to take Gallifrey harbor, nor how his marines would be used in the assault.
“I think we understand each other,” she said. “I suggest you return to your marines and make sure that they are settling in. Given the activity on deck, I ask that you send no more than six at a time on deck to take the air.”
And if she saw more than six, she would know that mutiny was afoot.
He simply nodded once more, then turned and left without any acknowledgment. She knew she had not won that encounter, but merely bought herself time to craft her scheme.
As the dawn rose, the Dolphin dropped anchor outside the entrance to Gallifrey harbor—close enough to be seen, but far enough away to make it clear that they did not intend to enter. The yellow plague flag fluttered from the mainmast, while a dozen of her sailors lay on the deck under canvas screens, their skin dyed green with boiled weed.
The sails were furled sloppily, canvas drooping and lines seemingly tangled. It was as she had ordered, yet such disorder disturbed her soul. Ysobel clenched her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she fought the urge to admonish her sailors for the careless work.
There was one final touch. Ysobel watched as two sailors lowered their grisly burden onto a canvas sheet. Orva had been a plain woman in life, and the week her body had spent pickling in brine had done nothing to improve her appearance. The sharp tang of the brine did not cover the stench of rot, and the sailors were white-faced as they backed away from the corpse.
Orva’s death had been a stupid waste, a moment’s carelessness that led to a lethal fall to the deck below. But even in her death she could be made to serve.
“And what will you do if they do not come?” Lieutenant Burrell asked. Ysobel had grown accustomed to his constant presence in the days since she had first revealed her plans. He questioned her at every turn, but nonetheless followed her lead.
She still knew no more of his loyalties than she had at the start of the voyage, but now was the time that both of them would be put to the test.
“Only a fool would let a plague ship anchor outside their harbor. They’ll send a party to warn us off. Or if they don’t, I’ll send a rowboat in to parley.”
The narrow entrance to Gallifrey harbor was guarded by two small forts on each side, with deadly catapults that could rain stones or lead shot upon enemy ships. A massive iron cable closed the harbor entrance at night, or in case of attack. As per their treaty with Thuridon, Ikarian marines controlled the forts, and they could call for reinforcements from the Ikarian merchant ships that filled the harbor.
A single federation ship could do little damage. Even a full-scale attack by the navy might not succeed.
Which was why Ysobel had chosen stealth and deception instead. She had kept her doubts to herself, knowing that the crew needed to believe in her if they were to play their parts. Still, she could not resist a sigh of relief as her eyes caught sight of a small gig leaving the harbor, heading toward them.
As she waited for the gig to draw near, she took a final stroll around the deck, occasionally bending down as if to reassure the stricken sailors, but in truth reminding each of their part.
Burrell, wearing the tunic of a sailor, joined her amidships as the gig approached within hailing distance. While Ysobel posed as captain, Elpheme stood in the deckhouse, within calling distance of the hatch where the rest of the sailors crouched belowdecks, awaiting her orders. If their deception was discovered, Elpheme would rouse the crew for a speedy escape.
The gig stopped a cable’s length away, close enough that they could hear each other and see each other’s faces.
As the rowers shipped their oars, the man sitting in the front of the gig stood up. “I am Antonius, the harbormaster. Your ship is denied entrance to our harbor, and we order you to set sail within the next day.”
Ysobel gave an exaggerated shrug. “If I have enough crew alive tomorrow, I will gladly set sail.”
The gig was close enough so that she could see the sailors blanch, but the harbormaster was made of sterner stuff.
Ysobel mopped her brow with a linen handkerchief. At this signal, Elias, the youngest of the crew, rose from his pallet and staggered to the rail, where he vomited barley soaked in red wine. To an onlooker it would appear as if he had vomited blood.
The ability to vomit at will was not something she had previously considered an important qualification in one of her sailors, but rather served as proof that even the most unlikely of talents could be turned to serve the ship.
“I need fresh water and to pass along a warning,” Ysobel said, raising her voice to be heard over the sounds of Elias’s choking heaves.
“A warning?”
“Last night I anchored offshore
, not wanting to try my luck with the reefs. This morning I discovered one of my longboats missing along with several of my crew.” Ysobel gestured to the empty davit. “I fear they may have snuck into the harbor, and brought their contagion with them…”
“The harbor is chained and watched—” the harbormaster said.
“Of course you know best,” she said. But both knew that the chain was meant to keep out ships, not small boats that drew only a shallow draft. And according to her intelligence, the marines had grown lazy, relying upon the chain rather than making regular patrols by rowboat as was the custom in other ports.
“I will see that water is sent, but be warned that your ship will be watched. Your crew must remain on board, and you must depart in two days,” Antonius said. He sat down heavily and gestured to his crew.
Ysobel placed her right hand behind her back, and at this signal the sailing master called out “We’ve lost another one.”
The harbormaster flinched.
“By the gods,” Ysobel swore. “She’s the second this morning.”
“The third,” Burrell corrected her. “It’s getting worse.”
She watched as Landers tied lead ballast weights to each of Orva’s legs, then bound the canvas sheet around her body with rope. At his signal a sailor lifted the body by the shoulders, while Landers picked up her feet. They carried the body to the rail and heaved it unceremoniously over the side. As planned, the loosely knotted ropes gave way in the air, revealing Orva’s bloated corpse. With a small splash, her body sank beneath the waves.
Shocked exclamations arose from the crew of the gig, who bent their backs to their oars as if they were being pursued by monsters. Only those who had grown hardened to death would have treated a corpse so shamefully, and Ysobel knew that this would do more than anything else to convince Antonius that she had been telling the truth. There could be no doubt that the Dolphin was cursed by vile contagion.
So far all had gone according to plan. Ysobel made a circuit of the deck, ostensibly checking on her dying sailors, but in reality reminding them that the ship would be watched from shore, so they had to keep up the pretense of illness.
Barely an hour had lapsed since the harbormaster’s visit, when the first trading ship left the harbor for the open sea, carefully skirting a wide berth around the Dolphin. Such a departure could have been routine, but she was swiftly followed by a second, then a third. By noon, more than a dozen ships had left the harbor, their captains abandoning cargo and profits rather than risk being caught in a port overrun by plague. As the day wore on, the tangle of masts in the inner harbor thinned, as one ship, then another, chose prudence over danger.
Ysobel’s spirits rose with each departure, though she was careful to keep her face grim while on deck. The canvas screens, which covered both ballistae and supposedly dying sailors alike, could only conceal so much.
There was no sign of the promised provisions from shore. If there truly had been contagion aboard the Dolphin, fresh water might have meant the difference between life and death. Such callous disregard was against all customs of the sea, where even the most deadly of rivals were required to set aside their differences in the face of a common enemy. Then, again, Antonius was Ikarian, with all their in-bred arrogance and disdain for the ways of others.
She wondered if Antonius had forgotten to send the water lighter, or if he had been unable to find any willing to approach the plague ship, when so many ships already in harbor were no doubt clamoring for fresh water and willing to pay generously for service so they could set sail.
Or maybe the delay was more ominous in nature. Perhaps they were preparing to send not water, but rather soldiers with flaming arrows, ready to set fire to the Dolphin and execute her dying crew before they could spread their illness. Though such a course held its own peril. They had anchored near the western edge of the harbor mouth, close enough that they could be seen through spyglasses from the watchtower. Which meant that they were also close enough that a strong swimmer could make it to the breakwater. Presumably those who were already infected and dying would drown before reaching shore, but would the harbormaster want to take that chance?
Such fretting accomplished nothing, so after a quiet word with Captain Elpheme, Ysobel stretched out on the deck for a nap, taking her turn playing the role of a stricken sailor. A short rest would aid her for later, and had the advantage of scandalizing Lieutenant Burrell, who viewed her idleness with deep disdain.
As she closed her eyes, she wondered why he had left the planning of this mission to her since it was clear that he did not trust her. Either he was grossly incompetent, or he was trying to ensure that the responsibility for failure would be hers alone.
She dozed lightly, until the late-afternoon sun slipped below the canvas awning. Rising to her feet, she made her way below to her borrowed cabin, where Elias, the vomiting sailor, was waiting. She congratulated him on his earlier performance as she inserted wax plugs into her nose, then stripped off her clothes. A sponge soaked in a mixture of tea and boiled weed painted her skin a sickly yellow-green. Then she put on a blouse and leggings that had been soaked in some foul concoction thought up by the cook. Even through the nose plugs she could smell their stench, and wondered how Elias stood there without gagging.
Once dressed, she entered the chart room, where Lieutenant Burrell and Captain Elpheme were waiting. Burrell, who proclaimed himself a skilled swimmer, wore similar attire to her own. Elpheme’s face was green, but from honest nausea at the stench, not paint. She would remain with the ship.
“The volunteers are ready,” Elpheme said. “They’re assembled by the stern, waiting for you.”
Ysobel looked at Burrell. “If your marines fail us—”
“My marines will be in position, as I commanded,” he said. “They know their duty.”
“Good,” she said. “I would hate to be executed alone.”
If the harbormaster had boarded the Dolphin, he would have seen that the empty space on the davit was meant to hold not one but rather two rowboats. Yesterday, two dozen of Burrell’s marines had been crammed into the boats, and set ashore down the coast, with instructions to hike along the rocky coastline until they were in sight of the fort that guarded the eastern edge of the harbor.
The western edge was joined to land by a narrow breakwater, which meant that it could only be approached from the water. While Burrell’s marines secured the eastern fort, Ysobel and her sailors would take the western fort. Timing was everything, and there was no room for hesitation or second-guessing. Either the plan worked, or it didn’t.
If they failed, it was likely that Burrell would execute her before the Ikarians had a chance to capture her. He had only agreed to her plan after insisting that he be allowed to accompany her—and he assigned only half of his marines to the raiding party, ensuring that enough remained behind that she could not act against him.
“The Dolphin is ready, and I will be waiting for your signal,” Captain Elpheme said. “May fortune be with you.”
After so much anxiety, the actual battle itself was over nearly before it had begun. Confronted by diseased-ravaged, cutlass-wielding madmen, many of the garrison threw down their weapons and fled. Those who chose to stand and fight were quickly disarmed.
There were a few anxious moments before signal lamps from the eastern fort indicated that Burrell’s marines had seized it as well.
Ysobel ordered the Ikarian flag struck down, as the agreed-upon signal, and a short time later boats arrived from the Dolphin bearing the rest of Burrell’s marines. Under his direction they took control of the watchtower and its catapults.
Ysobel had taken charge of interrogating the senior of the surviving soldiers, who proved remarkably cooperative as long as she did not approach him too closely. The long swim had done little to lessen her stench, and the soldiers seemed convinced that this assault was the last act of a crew desperate to escape their dying ship. She did not bother to inform them otherwise.
&nbs
p; His tally of ships left in harbor matched her own observations—a mere ten seagoing vessels, with a like number of smaller river craft. What she hadn’t known was that there were two federation flagged vessels in harbor, along with four Ikarian-owned ships.
It spoke poorly of her fellow traders’ instincts that they had not chosen to flee, but since they had remained behind, she would have a use for them.
Elpheme had proven her worth by sending along fresh clothes for Ysobel and the rest of the swimmers. A hasty wash took care of the lingering stench, though her skin would stay green until the dye wore off. Leaving a marine sergeant in charge, she joined Lieutenant Burrell in a skiff that rowed them across to inspect the eastern fort. At the entrance to the fort, drying bloodstains told the tale of fierce fighting. Two of the marines had been killed, and three others wounded, but the fort was secure.
The skiff ferried the wounded marines to the Dolphin, and brought back sailors to help secure the fort. Ysobel had stripped the crew of the Dolphin as much as she dared—leaving barely enough hands aboard to make sail if trouble came.
When dawn came, both forts flew the flag of the Federated Islands of Seddon, as did the nearby Dolphin, which had moved to guard the harbor entrance from approach by sea. She had lowered her yellow plague flag, as well as the canvas screens that concealed her ballistae.
At Ysobel’s orders, the harbor chain remained drawn, ensuring that no ship could enter or leave the harbor without permission.
It was midmorning when two men approached the fort, bearing the palm leaves that indicated their wish to parley. They were brought into the fort, through the central courtyard, where her marines were massed to give the impression of overwhelming numbers.
Ysobel met them on the far side of the courtyard, Lieutenant Burrell at her side. The resplendence of his dress uniform nearly made up for his sickly complexion.
The harbormaster Antonius glared at her, while his companion, an older gentleman with the pale complexion of the native Thuridons, merely looked around the courtyard with interest. “I am Calvino, mayor of Gallifrey,” he said. “I come to you under the truce of parley.”
The Sea Change Page 16
