She looked up at him with tears in her eyes and a guilty expression on her face. "I lied."
Chapter 3
The Courier Hadrian stood in the anteroom, waiting in line to deliver the dispatch. The clerk was a short, plump, balding man with ink-stained fingers and a spare quill behind each ear. He sat behind a formidable desk, scribbling on documents and muttering to himself, unconcerned with the growing line of people.
They had ridden to Aquesta, and Hadrian had volunteered to deliver the dispatch while Royce waited at a rendezvous with horses at the ready. Although he had performed jobs for many of the nobility, few here would know him by sight. Riyria had always conducted business anonymously, working through third parties such as the Viscount Albert Winslow, who fronted the organization and preserved their anonymity. He doubted that Saldur would recognize him, but Luis Guy certainly would. As a result, Hadrian kept a clear map of the nearest exit in his head and a count of the imperial guards between him and freedom.
The seat of the New Imperial Empire was busy and members of the palace staff hurried by, entering and exiting through the many doors around him. They ran or walked as briskly as need, or dignity, demanded. Some turned his way, but only briefly. As he knew from experience, the degree of attention people paid was inversely proportionate to his or her status. The lord chamberlain and high chancellor passed without a glance, while the serving steward ventured a long look and a young page stared curiously for nearly a full minute. While Hadrian was invisible to those at the highest levels, he was becoming uncomfortable.
This is taking too long.
Two dispatch riders reached the front of the line, quickly dropped off their satchels, and left. A city merchant was next and came to file a complaint. This took some time, as the clerk asked numerous questions and meticulously recorded each answer.
Next, came the young, plain-looking woman directly ahead of Hadrian. "Tell the chamberlain I wish an audience," she said, stepping forward. She wore no makeup, leaving her face dull. Her hair, pulled back and drawn up in a net, did nothing to accentuate her appearance. She was pear-shaped, a feature made even more evident by her gown, which flared at the waist into a great hoop.
"The lord chamberlain is in a meeting with the regents and cannot be disturbed, Your Ladyship."
The words were proper, but the tone was cold. Exhibiting more than a mere professional indifference, the words sounded contemptuous. The inflection on Ladyship sounded particularly sarcastic. The woman either did not notice or chose to ignore it.
"He's been ducking me for over a week," the woman accused. "Something must be done. I need material for the empress's new dress."
"My records indicate that quite a large sum was spent on a gown for Modina recently. We are at war and have more important appropriations to make."
"That was for her presentation on the balcony. She can't walk around in that. I'm talking about a day dress."
"It was very expensive nonetheless. You don't want to take food from our soldiers' mouths just so the empress can have another pretty outfit, do you?"
"Another? She has two worn hand-me-downs!"
"Which is more than many of her subjects, isn't it?"
"The empire has spent a fortune remodeling this palace. Surely it won't break the imperial economy to buy a bit of cloth. She doesn't need silk. Linen will do. I'll have the seamstress-"
"I am quite certain that if the lord chamberlain thought the empress needed another dress he would provide one. Since he has not, she doesn't need it. Now, Amilia," he said brazenly, "if you don't mind, I have work to do."
The woman's shoulders slumped in defeat.
Footsteps echoed from behind them, and the small man's smug expression faltered as he looked past Amilia. Hadrian turned and saw the farm girl he once knew as Thrace walking up, flanked by an armed guard. Her dress was faded and frayed just as Amilia had said, but the young woman stood tall, straight, and unabashed. She motioned to the guard to wait, as she moved to the front of the line to face the clerk.
"The Lady Amilia speaks with my authority. Please do as she has requested," Thrace said.
The clerk looked confused. His bright eyes flickered nervously back and forth between the two.
Thrace continued, "I am sure you do not wish to refuse an order from your empress, do you?"
The scribe lowered his voice, but his irritation still carried as he addressed Amilia. "If you think I am going to kneel before your trained dog, you're mistaken. She's as insane as rumored. I am not as ignorant as the castle staff, and I'm not going to be toyed with by common trash. Get out of here, both of you. I don't have time for foolishness this morning."
Amilia cringed openly, but Thrace did not waver. "Tell me, Quail, do you think the palace guards share your opinions of me?" She looked back at the soldier. "If I were to call him over and accuse you of…let's see…being a traitor, and then…let me think…order him to execute you right here, what do you think he would do?"
The clerk looked suspiciously at Thrace, as if trying to see behind a mask. "You wouldn't dare," he hissed, his eyes shifting between the two women.
"No? Why not?" Thrace replied. "You just said yourself that I'm insane. There's no telling what I might do, or why. From now on, you will treat the Lady Amilia with respect and obey her orders as if they come from the highest authority. Do you understand?"
The clerk nodded slowly.
As Thrace turned to leave, she caught sight of Hadrian and stopped as if she had run into an invisible wall. Her eyes locked on his, and she staggered a step and stood wavering.
Amilia reached out to support her. "Modina, what's wrong?"
Thrace said nothing, and continued to stare at him, shocked. Her eyes filled with tears and her lips trembled.
The door to the main office opened.
"I don't want to hear another word about it!" Ethelred thundered as he, Saldur, and Archibald Ballentyne entered the anteroom together. Hadrian looked toward the hall window, estimating the number of steps it would take to reach it, but did not move when none of them took notice of him.
The old cleric focused on Thrace. "What's going on here?"
"I'm taking Her Eminence back to her room," Amilia replied. "I don't think she's feeling well."
"They were requesting material for a new dress," the clerk announced with an accusing tone.
"Well, obviously she needs one. Why is she still wearing that rag?" Saldur asked.
"The lord chamberlain refuses-"
"What do you need him for?" Saldur scowled. "Just tell the clerk to order what you require. You don't need to pester Bernard with such trivialities."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Amilia said, placing one arm around Thrace's waist and supporting her elbow with the other as she gently led her away. Thrace's eyes never left Hadrian, her head turning over her shoulder as they departed.
Saldur followed her gaze and looked curiously at Hadrian. "You look familiar," he pondered, taking a step forward for a closer look.
"Courier," Hadrian said, his heart racing. He bowed and held up the message like a shield.
"He's probably been here a dozen times, Sauly." Ethelred snatched the folded parchment and eyed it. "This is from Merrick!"
All three lost interest in Hadrian as Ethelred unfolded the letter.
This was his chance to slip out while they were distracted. He could not risk Thrace drawing attention to him again. She had no idea what was going on, no way of knowing that just saying "Hello" would put a noose around his neck.
"Your Lordships." Hadrian bowed, then turned and quickly walked away, passing Amilia and Thrace. With each step he felt her stare upon his back, until he turned the corner and disappeared.
***
"Any problems?" Royce asked when Hadrian met him outside.
"Not really. I saw Thrace," Hadrian said as they walked. "She doesn't look good. She's thin, real thin and pale. They have her begging for clothes from some sniveling little clerk."
Royce look
ed back, concerned. "Did she recognize you?"
Hadrian nodded. "But she didn't say anything. She just stared."
"I guess if she was planning to arrest us, she'd have done it by now," Royce said, relaxing slightly.
"Arrest us? This is Thrace we're talking about, for Maribor's sake."
"They've had her for two years-she's the Empress Modina now."
"Yeah, but…"
"What?"
"I don't know," Hadrian said, remembering the look on Thrace's face. "She doesn't look well. I'm not sure what's going on in the palace, but it's not good. And I promised her father I'd look out for her."
Royce shook his head in frustration. "Can we focus on one rescue at a time? For a man in retirement, you're really busy. Besides, Theron's idea of success was to get his eldest son a cooper's shop. I think he might settle for his daughter being crowned empress. Now, let's get down to the wharf. We need to find theEmerald Storm."
Chapter 4
The Race The imperial capital of Aquesta, while not as large or as wealthy as Colnora, was the most powerful city in Avryn. The palace dated back to before the age of Glenmorgan and was originally a governor's residence in the ancient days of the Novronian Empire. Scholars pointed to the gray rock of the castle's foundation with pride and boasted about how imperial engineers from Percepliquis had laid it. Here, at Highcourt Fields, great tournaments were held each Wintertide. The best knights from all of Apeladorn arrived to compete in jousting, fencing, and other contests of skill. These weeklong events included an ongoing feast for the nobles and provided healthy revenue for the merchants, who showed their wares along the streets. The city became a carnival of sights and sounds that attracted visitors for hundreds of miles.
Much of Aquesta's economic sucess came from possessing the largest and busiest saltwater port in Avryn. The docks were awash with all manner of sailing watercraft. Brigs, trawlers, grain ships, merchant vessels, and warships all anchored in its harbor. To the south lay the massive shipyard along with rope, net, and sail manufacturers. The northern end of the bay held the wharf and its fish houses, livestock pens, lumberyards, and tar boilers. All the industries of the sea and sea-going were represented.
"Which one is the Emerald Storm?" Hadrian asked, looking at the forest of masts and rigging that lined the docks.
"Let's try asking at the information office." Royce hooked his thumb at a tavern perched on the edge of the dock. The wooden walls were bleached white with salt and the clapboards warped like ocean waves. The door hung askew off leather hinges, and above it a weathered sign in the shape of a fish announced: The Salty Mackerel.
The tavern had few windows, leaving the interior dim and smoky. Each tiny table had a melted candle, and a weak fire smoldered in a round brick hearth in the center of the room. Men packed the place, dressed in loose trousers, long checkered shirts, and wide brimmed hats with glossy tops. Many sat with pipes in mouths and feet on tables. Some stood leaning against posts. All heads turned when they entered, and Hadrian realized that they stood out in their tunics and cloaks.
"Hello." Hadrian smiled as he struggled to close the door. The wind whistled through and snuffed out three candles nearest them. "Sorry, could use some better hinges."
"Iron hinges rust overnight here," the bartender said. The thin, crooked man wiped the counter with one hand while gathering empty mugs in the other. "What do you two want?"
"Looking for the Emerald Storm," Royce spoke up.
Neither took more than a step inside. None of the haggard faces looked friendly, and Hadrian liked the comfort of a nearby exit.
"Whatcha want with it?" another man asked.
"We heard it was a good ship, and we were wondering if there are any openings for sailors."
This brought a riotous round of laughter.
"And where be these sailors who be lookin' fer a job?" another voice bellowed from within the murky haze. "Certainly not two sand crabs like you."
More laughter.
"So, what you're saying isyou don't know anything about the Emerald Storm. Is that right?" Royce returned in a cutting tone that quieted the room.
"The Storm is an imperial ship, lad," the crooked man told them, "and it's all pressed up. They're only taking seasoned-salts now-if there's any room left a'tall."
"If yer lookin' fer work, the fishery always needs gutters. That's about as close to seafaring work as is likely for you two."
Once more the room filled with boisterous laughter.
Hadrian looked at Royce who shoved the door open and with a scowl stepped outside. "Thanks for the advice," Hadrian told everyone, before following his partner.
They sat on the Mackerel's steps, staring at the line of ships across the street. Spires of wood draped with tethered cloth looked like ladies getting dressed for a ball. Hadrian wondered if that was why they always referred to ships as women.
"What now?" he asked softly.
Royce sat hunched with his chin on his hands. "Thinking," was all he said.
Behind them the door scraped open, and the first thing Hadrian noticed was a wide-brimmed hat with one side pinned up by a lavish blue plume.
The face beneath the hat was familiar, and Royce recognized him immediately. "Wyatt Deminthal."
Wyatt hesitated as he locked eyes with Royce. He stood with one foot still inside. He did not look surprised to see them, he was merely questioning the wisdom of advancing, like a child who approached a dog that unexpectedly growled. For a heartbeat no one said a word, then Wyatt gritted his teeth and pulled the door shut behind him.
"I can get you on the Storm," he said quickly.
Royce narrowed his eyes. "How?"
"I'm quartermaster and helmsman. They're short a cook and can always use another topman. She's ready to sail as soon as a shipment from the palace arrives."
"Why?"
Wyatt swallowed, and his hand absently drifted to his throat. "I know you saw me. You're here to collect but-I don't have the money I owe. Setting you up in Medford was nothing personal. We were starving, and Trumbul paid gold. I didn't know they were going to arrest you for the king's murder. I was just hiring you to steal the sword-that's all. A hundred gold tenents is a lot of money. And honestly-well, I've never saved that much in my life and I doubt I ever will."
"So, you think getting us on the Emerald Storm is worth a hundred gold?"
Wyatt licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth between them. "Is it?"
***
Royce and Hadrian crossed the busy street, dodging carts, and stepped onto weathered decking suspended by ropes. The boards bobbed and weaved beneath their feet. The two were dressed in loose-fitting duck-trousers, oversized linen shirts, tarpaulin hats with a bit of ribbon, and neckerchiefs tied in some arcane way that Wyatt had fussed with for some time to get right. They both carried large, heavy cloth seabags in which they stowed their old clothes and Hadrian hid his three swords. Being unarmed left him feeling off-balance and naked.
They snaked through the crowded dock, following Wyatt's directions to the end of the pier. The Emerald Storm was a smart-looking, freshly-painted ship, with three masts, four decks, and the figurehead of a golden winged woman ornamenting the bow. Her sails furled and green pennants flew from each mast. A small army of men hoisted bags of flour and barrels of salted pork onto the deck, where the crew stowed the supplies. Shouts came from what appeared to be an officer who directed the work and another man who enforced the orders with a stout rattan cane. Two imperial soldiers guarded the ramp.
"Do you have business here?" one asked at their approach.
"Yeah," Hadrian replied with an innocent, hopeful tone. "We're looking for work. Heard this ship was short on hands. We were told to speak with Mister Temple."
"What's this here?" asked a short, heavyset man with worn clothes, bushy eyebrows, and a gruff voice worn to gravel from years of yelling in the salt air. "I'm Temple."
"Word is you're looking to put on a cook," Hadrian said, pleasantly.
"We are."
"Well then, this is your lucky day."
"Ah-huh." Temple nodded with a sour look.
"And my friend here is an able-ah-topman."
"Oh, he is, is he?" Temple eyed Royce. "We have openings, but only for experienced sailors. Normally, I'd be happy to take on green men, but we can't afford landlubbers on this trip."
"But we are sailors-served on the Endeavor."
"Are you now?" The ship's master asked skeptically. "Let me see yer hands."
The master examined Hadrian's palms examining the various calluses and rough places while grunting occasionally. "You must have spent most of your time in the galley. You've not done any serious rope work." He examined Royce's hands and raised an eyebrow at him. "Have you ever been on a ship 'afore? It's certain you've never handled a sheet or a capstan."
"Royce here is a-you know-" Hadrian pointed up at the ship's rigging. "The guy who goes up there."
The master shook his head and laughed. "If you two are seamen, then I'm the Prince of Percepliquis!"
"Oh, but they are, Mister Temple," a voice declared. Wyatt exited the forecastle and came jogging toward them. A bright white shirt offset his tawny skin and black hair. "I know these men, old mates of mine. The little one is Royce Melborn, as fine a topman as they come. And the big one is ah…"
"Hadrian," Royce spoke up.
"Right, of course. Hadrian's a fine cook-he is, Mister Temple."
He pointed toward Royce. "This one's, a topman? Are you joking, Wyatt?"
"No, sir, he's one of the best."
Temple looked unconvinced.
"You can have him prove it to you, sir," Hadrian offered. "You could have him race your best up the ropes."
"You mean up the shrouds," Wyatt corrected.
"Yeah."
"You mean aye."
Hadrian sighed and gave up.
The master did not notice as he focused on Royce. He sized him up then shouted, "Derning!" His strong, raspy voice carried well against the ocean wind. Immediately, a tall thin fellow with leathery skin jogged over.
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