by Sarah Remy
“These aren’t helping.” Mal lifted an arm, shook the ivory bracelet around one wrist. “Whatever sorcery this is wars with my very nature.”
“They’re meant to.” The captain shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t have you summoning an army of keel-hauled corpses from the bottom of the sea, or calling lightning down upon my ship.”
Mal laughed until he coughed. Liam fluttered about like a worried mother hen. The first mate scowled and muttered. The captain unfolded gracefully from his seat on the trunk, poured red wine from a pitcher, and pressed a brimming tankard into Mal’s shaking hand.
“Breathe slowly and sip,” he ordered. “My father, he has bad lungs in winter. The wine helped. And the saunas.”
Mal sipped and breathed and sipped again. The wine tasted fruity, and cold. It stung his mouth and numbed his throat; a much higher alcohol content than he was used to.
“Thank you,” he said, when the spasm in his chest finally eased.
The captain nodded.
“Breakfast next.” He gestured at the mate, who immediately ducked out of the cabin. “Noel will bring you porridge. We’ve a few days yet to settle your stomach, before we hit the worst of it.”
“The Sunken Islands,” Mal said.
The captain nodded. “This time of year, I prefer to avoid them, but at the moment we are working against time, and that is the quickest way.”
Mal swallowed more wine. The captain wasn’t wrong; the alcohol settled his stomach and dulled vertigo to a distant buzz. When Liam sat against Mal’s knees, watchful, Mal was able to pat the lad’s head in reassurance.
“Across the Long Sea,” he hazarded after a moment, meeting the captain’s steady yellow stare. “Blois? Parsall? Nay, Roue. Aye?”
“Well done.” The captain clicked his tongue. He eyed Mal’s signet, now dangerously loose around his finger. “I was promised the shackles would prevent that.”
“Not magic,” Mal said, as the cabin door burst open and the first mate tromped back in, balancing a heavy tray on his forearm. “A reasonable assumption, I think. You speak the king’s tongue well, but accent is there, if one listens carefully. Then there are the slaves, the cannon, and the elephants.”
“Elephants?” The captain rose. He transferred steaming porridge, and apples, and a second pitcher of wine from the mate’s tray, movements quick and efficient. “I said nothing of elephants.”
“Your man did. And the bracelets—old ivory. I understand elephants roam wild across all of Sicambri, but only in and around Roue are they slaughtered for their tusks.”
“Not anymore,” replied the captain. “Not for many generations. Not since the Elephant Prince saved the Rani’s first grandfather in the Third War, snatching the spear meant for the king in his great trunk, snapping it into two pieces. Your bracelets are very old indeed.”
“Impressive,” Mal said. He set an apple in Liam’s hand, then eyed the porridge on the table with distaste.
“Eat, please,” the captain said. “I’ve promised the Rani a live magus. Noel will help you, if necessary.”
Mal picked up the spoon the first mate placed pointedly alongside the porridge bowl. “I’ll warn you it’s unlikely to stay down.”
“One can but try.” The captain bowed from the waist. “When we’re on the water, my men call me Captain, or Baldebert. You may do the same.”
“What are you called off the water?” Liam asked through a mouthful of apple.
“On land I am Admiral Baldebert, supreme commander of Roue’s most illustrious and royal navy.” He winked once at Liam and then smiled at Mal.
“Use the bed if you like, my lord. I’ve rounds to make, but Noel will stay.”
“To ensure I eat,” Mal said.
“Exactly,” the man said. He winked at Liam a second time, thumped the first mate on the back, and strode barefoot from the cabin.
Mal scooped clotted porridge up into his spoon, and began mechanically to eat.
Scraping through breakfast left Mal exhausted and weak. He allowed the first mate to help him across the cabin and into Baldebert’s bunk. When he was satisfied Mal was wedged into the tight space, and Liam not likely to leave his master unattended, the mate gathered up the breakfast dishes and left them alone.
Mal pressed his face into worn blankets, grateful for the comfort. The ship was still but for the gentle rock of oars, and he’d swallowed enough wine to turn the world rosy and pleasant.
“Better, my lord?” Liam asked. The lad had taken Mal’s place at the nailed-down table, and was staring with morose concentration into an empty pitcher. Late morning light fell through the cabin’s single window, pooling on the floor and part of the table, making Liam shine and shift and blur.
“Better for being in my cups,” Mal agreed. “No’ a good place to be, I admit. But I need real sleep, lad, so stop the scowling.”
“Yes, my lord. No, my lord.” Liam dipped one finger in a spill of red wine and used the wet to draw patterns on the table surface. “You sound all funny when you’re sotted, my lord. Have you a plan?”
Mal pillowed his cheek on the back of one hand. For once he was glad of his diminutive stature. The bunk was close but not uncomfortable. He suspected a taller man might find it unbearable.
“Baldebert said we’re approaching the Sunken Islands, lad. If that’s so, our best plan is to grab deck and pray we sail safely past. The rest can wait until land.”
“That’s as I afeared,” Liam muttered, but the gimlet stare he cast Mal’s way was more disappointed than frightened. “Can’t you do anything now, my lord? I’ve no wish to see these monstrous elephants, and I don’t much trust the captain, for more than the obvious reasons.”
“Abduction, you mean? I’m thinking Selkirk made a tidy profit off my kidnapping. Mother’s always had a talent for haggling.” Mal’s bones ached. He rolled onto his back. The shelf above the bunk was inlaid; several colors of wood joined together in a repeating star pattern and polished smooth. “You could steal the first mate’s knife and saw off my hands and feet at the joints, I suppose, rid me o’ the bracelets. But even then I couldna turn you into a bird and send you winging back to Wilhaiim, at least no’ before I bled out all over the deck like a lance-struck swine.”
Liam paused in drawing patterns in the wine. He chewed his lower lip.
“What’s a Rani, then, and what’s he got to do with us?”
“She,” Mal corrected. “It’s only another title. A noble lady, or princess.” He frowned, trying to think past wine. “Roue’s a small province; I think it’s got a king. Or did so, once. They’re no’ a very open people, generally, though some o’ that’s got to do with distance. The last delegation come to Wilhaiim was before Renault’s time.”
“His Majesty’s going to be right furious when he discovers you’ve been bought away, my lord, and your own family collecting the blood coin.”
“Aye,” Mal agreed, staring thoughtfully at the inlaid stars overhead. “I’ll no’ argue that.”
A STEADY DIET of red wine and porridge and comfortable sleep eased Mal’s throat and lungs and kept the vertigo at bay. He learned to take just enough wine to keep his head from spinning, and to eat the ship’s porridge slowly, and to sleep whenever the sea began to toss. He grew steadier on his feet, and the pain in his limbs eased, and after two days in sickbed he felt healthy enough to be bored.
The first mate was in and out, tending to Mal’s needs and once or twice playing draughts with Liam to pass quiet hours. Of Baldebert they’d seen nothing. When pressed the mate said his captain was too busy for leisure.
“Busy with what?” Liam was also growing dull in confinement.
The first mate, collecting supper’s spent dishes, regarded the boy with something akin to sympathy.
“The captain’s set to seeing us through safe water,” he said. “While the two of you
hide belowdecks, the rest of us are watching the islands roll past, watching them funnel clouds form and split again. The sea around the islands is always changing, but Baldebert’s got a way of finding the best way home.”
It was the most Mal had heard the first mate speak since he’d become nursemaid. The sailor’s expression shone with enthusiasm. Liam’s quickly grew to match.
“I want to see,” the lad said, forgetting dignity to bounce on his toes. “My lord, please can I go up?”
“We both will go,” Mal decided, kicking aside bedding. “Fresh air will do me good, I think.”
The first mate looked doubtful, but his protest was halfhearted.
“You’ll hup back below if I tell you so,” he cautioned. “The worse funnels come on with little or no warning. A man can find himself overboard before he realizes storm has struck.”
“I will!” Liam nodded. “Don’t worry, my lord.” He darted out of the cabin, leaving Mal to follow more slowly.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, as the first mate preceded him through the door. “He’s a fine lad, and a good page, but he’s meant to be outdoors, I think.”
“Some of us are,” the mate agreed, rolling with the ship as he carried dishes away.
MAL LOOKED FIRST for Jacob, and was disappointed to find the rigging empty. The ship’s great sails were still furled, lashed to the masts, despite a healthy wind Mal hadn’t noticed in the captain’s cabin. The gust was strong enough to toss spray upon the decks. The reek of salt and sweat was strong; apparently his nose was working once again.
Even tarred, the boards were slippery with wet. Mal walked carefully, pausing here and there to scan the mast and foredeck, in search of black feathers. He worried that the wind had blown the raven into the sea, or sent the bird smashing to the deck.
“Gone for fresh water, I’d wager,” Baldebert said, materializing at Mal’s side. “Flown off to one of the islands. Bit more than an average bird, that one. Your familiar, is it?”
The captain had shed his tricorn and tied his hair out of the wind. His togs were more wet than dry, and a nasty, fresh-looking cut bled on the back of his hand. He sucked the cut clean as he regarded Mal, the absent habit of a man well used to scrapes and torn skin.
“He’s a friend,” Mal said. “Are the islands truly so close?”
“Never known a bird to indulge in friendship.” Baldebert shrugged. “Come and see, my lord necromancer. Shellshale’s so close you can spit across her, if you like.”
Mal followed the captain across open air to the starboard bulwark. Past the small shelter of the cabin, the wind picked up, tugging at Mal’s hair and trousers. It wasn’t a cold wind, but heavy with moisture and heat.
“There.” Baldebert pointed across the gunwale. “Shellshale. Not more than a hillock above the water, but they say she’s the top of a great mountain hidden beneath the waves. Beyond that, just on the horizon there, that’s the Horn. Bit more land above water than any of the other eight, our Horn. That’s where your bird will have gone for fresh water.”
“We’ve different names for them, but I’ve seen maps.”
Baldebert pressed his palms to the gunwale and stood on his toes, stretching. The gash on his hand was bleeding again, ignored. The captain was a head taller than Mal, although lean as an acrobat. Mal tried to imagine the longer man folded into the captain’s bunk and couldn’t.
“Maps are no good, here. Below the waterline the land is constantly changing. Shipping routes are clear one season, and dangerous the next.” He tossed Mal a surprisingly youthful grin. “Most ships won’t attempt it. Most go around.”
“But not you, Admiral.”
The other man sobered. “Not when time is precious,” he said. “And my cargo good as diamonds.” He turned from the gunwale, executing a neat, pointed half bow in Mal’s direction.
“Am I?” Mal murmured, thinking of Selkirk’s coffers.
“Indeed.” Baldebert cocked his head, hearing something past the wind Mal didn’t. “I’m wanted on the fo’c’sle. Come, my lord. Would you like to see how it’s done?”
“Aye,” Mal admitted. Privately, he could admit to curiosity. He knew navigational principles in the abstract, of course. He’d spent hours as a lad studying the formulas under his father’s watchful eye. But he’d never been able to witness those principles at work—that pleasure had been Rowan’s.
An eagerness rose within him, momentarily banishing vertigo. He was like a boy again, the anticipation of seafaring adventure not yet ripped away by the curse in his blood.
“Lead on,” he said, waving a hand at Baldebert. “Please. Show me what this ship of yours can do.”
Chapter Nine
THE FIRST WATER funnel blew past The Cutlass Wind in the dark hours before dawn. It was the silence and stillness that woke Mal first, the sudden cease of rain and smothering heat. He propped himself on his elbows in the captain’s bunk, squinting through the cabin’s single window, trying to gauge the time. He saw only the black of deepest night or heavy storm.
A knock at the cabin door sent Liam lurching upright from his nest of blankets beneath the table. By the time the lad had located the latch, Mal had managed to roll from the bunk. Vertigo threatened. He thought it was the utter stillness of the ship on the sea that made the hair on his arms stand on end.
A sailor Mal didn’t recognize thrust a shimmering lantern and a plump wineskin in Liam’s direction.
“For the magus, from the captain,” the man said, hushed. He crooked a thumb at Liam. “You’re with me, lad. We need hands on deck. Looks to be a wild one.”
“I want the boy here,” Mal began, even as Liam set wine and lantern on the table and hastily wriggled into his trousers.
The sailor drew a length of cord from his pocket, quickly knotted one end to his belt, and the other to Liam’s wrist.
“All hands,” he said. “Funnel hits, we need bilge workers, and extra muscle for the oars.”
“Don’t worrit yourself, my lord,” Liam said, eager. “I know what to do; I’ve been practicing. I won’t go overboard, and I’ll not let you drown. My lord.”
“Not on my watch,” the sailor agreed. “Baldebert says drink it all down, my lord, and blow out the lantern once the skin’s empty, so as to prevent fire.”
Mal gritted his teeth and nodded. Liam remembered to bow once in his direction before he dashed away in the sailor’s wake, tethered by the single piece of cord. Mal knew the line was for safety, but still the leash galled.
He sank into a chair, head spinning, and uncorked the wineskin. He swallowed half of the drink down, watching the flame in the lantern dance on a draft he didn’t feel. The wine worked its usual cure, settling his stomach and making his head pleasantly muzzy. The lantern light turned the bracelets on his wrists sepia. He traced the ivory with the tip of one finger, mouth pulled tight.
MAL EXPECTED THE storm to hit slowly in an increase of wind and rain and swell. Instead it fell with a roar and a crash, rolling the ship sideways and sending the deck spinning. Mal clutched the table to keep from falling, and then had to grab at the lantern as it toppled. He caught it around the glass shield and swore loudly when heat stung his palms.
The ship bucked. Mal fell, taking the lantern with him. He managed to snuff the flame with his thumb as he went down, but the glass shattered against a table leg. Mal lay on the boards in the dark, stunned. He could hear shouts from above, and more distant, muffled cries from the hold below: the oars master’s screamed entreaties as he berated his living engine.
“Blood of the King.” Mal managed to make his knees, moving carefully to avoid broken glass. He found the lip of the table and pulled himself upright, grateful for the bolts anchoring the furniture to the deck. He couldn’t locate the wineskin, and supposed it was spilling its contents uselessly across the cabin floor.
Hands spread front and side, M
al edged his way around table and chairs to the cabin wall. The wood thrummed against his knuckles; the vibration reminded Mal of the sound of angry bees. He found the door without much trouble, but struggled with the latch and had to pull hard on the door itself, finally kicking the jamb with his heel until the door swung free.
Wind howled into the cabin, bringing with it salt and sting and the screams of men. Mal’s ears popped. He hung on to the door frame even as seawater washed in small ripples over the threshold.
“Get back!” A swab stood guard outside the cabin door, his young face a pale blotch in the night. “Get back inside, my lord!”
“Nay.” Mal clung to the outside of the cabin. “Are we flooded?”
The swab blinked. Mal motioned at the water on the deck. The boy’s mouth gaped but he shook his head.
“Not yet. The captain’s got the bilge rats working hard. They’re doing as best they can, but the sea, she’s fast.”
“Go join them,” Mal ordered. “I don’t need a guard dog. You’re wasted here.”
“But, my lord—”
“All hands,” Mal snapped. The lad nodded, and staggered off into the night.
The wind was a weight against Mal’s chest, pinning him to the bulwark as he inched slowly along the deck, following the sound of the silver whistle. Sailors and swabs dashed back and forth. The furled sails rattled against constraining rope and the masts groaned. The Cutlass Wind danced dangerously atop waves that rose half again as high as the gunwale.
When Mal was almost across the deck, nearer the great gun than the captain’s cabin, the wind died to nothing and the ship wallowed on abruptly flat water. Clouds overhead parted and a low red sun shone through, and Mal was able to lift his head and look about. What he saw made his heart rise into his throat and stick behind his teeth.
“God’s balls,” he said. “That man is mad.”
Baldebert stood still on the bowsprit, placid as a lake heron on windfall. He was lashed in place with cord, his hair and clothes plastered close against his slender form. Even as his crew ran this way and that, and the first mate sagged against the ship’s wheel, Baldebert continued to toss the dipsea and shout his mark.
