The Emerald Storm

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “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.

  “Aye, sir?” he responded respectfully.

  “This fellow says he can beat you in a race to loose the topsail and back. What do you think?”

  “I think he’s mistaken, sir.”

  “Well, we’ll find out.” The master turned back to Royce. “I don’t actually expect you to beat Derning. Jacob here is one of the best topmen I’ve seen, but if you put in a good showing, the two of you will have jobs aboard. If it turns out you’re wasting my time, well, you’ll be swimming back. Derning, you take starboard. Royce, you have port. We’ll begin after I have Lieutenant Bishop’s permission to get under way.”

  Mister Temple moved toward the quarterdeck, and Wyatt slid down the stair rail to Royce’s side. “Remember what I taught you last night…and what Temple said. You don’t need to beat Derning.”

  Hadrian clapped Royce on the back, grinning. “So, the idea is to just free the sail and get back down alive.”

  Royce nodded and looked apprehensively up at the towering mast before him.

  “Not afra
id of heights, I hope.” Wyatt grinned.

  “All right, gentlemen!” Mister Temple shouted, addressing the crew from his new position on the quarterdeck. “We’re having a contest.” He explained the details of the event to the crew as Royce and Jacob moved to the base of the mainsail. Royce looked up with a grimace that drew laughter from the rest.

  “Seriously, he isn’t a gentd of heights, is he?” Wyatt asked, looking concerned. “I mean, it looks scary, and well—okay, it is the first few times you go aloft, but it really isn’t that hard if you’re careful and aren’t afraid of heights.”

  Hadrian grinned at Wyatt, but all he said was, “I think you’re going to like this.”

  An officer appeared on the quarterdeck and stood beside the master. “You may set sail, Mister Temple.”

  The master turned to the main deck and roared, “Loose the topsail!”

  Royce appeared caught by surprise, not realizing this was the order to begin the competition, and as a result, Jacob got the jump on him, racing up the ratlines like a monkey. Royce turned but did not begin climbing. Instead, he watched Jacob’s ascent for several seconds. The majority of the crew rooted for Jacob, but a few, perhaps those that heard they would win a ship’s cook if the stranger won, urged Royce to get climbing and called to him like a dog, “Go on, boy! Climb, you damn fool!” Some laughed, and a few made disparaging comments about his mother.

  Royce finally seemed to work something out in his head and leapt to the task. He sprang, clearing the deck by several feet, and began to run, rather than climb, up the ratlines. It appeared as if Royce was defying gravity as he pumped his legs up the netting, showing no more difficulty than if he were running up a staircase. By the time he reached the futtock shrouds, he had nearly caught up to Jacob. This was webbing that extended away from the mast, reaching toward the small wooden platform known as the masthead. Both men were forced to hang upside down using the ratlines, and without the ability to go no-handed, Royce lost momentum.

  Jacob swung around the masthead and jumped to the topmast shroud, where he ascended rapidly once more, in monkey form. By the time Royce cleared the masthead, he was well behind Derning. He made up time when he could once again advance without crawling inverted. They reached the yard together and both ran out along the top of the narrow beam like circus performers. Seeing them balance a hundred feet above the deck drew gasps from some of the crew, who gaped in amazement. Royce stopped, pivoting to watch his opponent. Derning threw himself down across the yard lying on his belly. He reached below for the gaskets to free the buntlines. Royce quickly imitated him, and together they worked their way across the arm. As they did, the sail came free, revealing its bright white face and dark green crown. It spilled down, whipping in the wind. Royce and Jacob lifted themselves back to their feet and moved to the end of the beam. They each grabbed the brace, the rope connected to the far end of the yardarm, and slid to the deck with the cheers of the crew in their ears. The two touched down together.

  Mister Temple shouted to restore order over the unruly crew. It did not matter who had won. The skillful display by both men was impressive enough to earn their approval. Even Hadrian found himself clapping, and he noticed Wyatt was staring with his mouth slightly open. Temple nodded at Hadrian and Wyatt.

  “Stand by at the capstan!” Lieutenant Bishop shouted, returning order. “Loose the heads’ls, hands aloft, loose the tops’ls fore and aft!”

  The crew scattered to their duties. A ring of men surrounded the wooden spoke wheel of the capstan, ready to raise the anchor. Wyatt moved quickly toward the ship’s helm while the rest, Jacob included, climbed the shrouds of the three masts.

  “An’ what are you two waiting for?” Mister Temple asked after Hadrian joined Royce. “You heard the lieutenant—get those sails loosed. Hadrian, take station at the capstan.”

  As they trotted to their duties Mister Temple gestured in Royce’s direction and remarked to Wyatt, “No wonder he doesn’t have rough hands, he doesn’t use them!”

  The ship’s captain appeared on the quarterdeck. He stood beside the lieutenant, his hands clasped behind his back, chestst out, and chin set against the salty wind that tugged at the edges of his uniform. Of slightly less than average height, he seemed the opposite of the lieutenant. While Mister Bishop was tall and thin, the captain was plump, with a double chin and long hanging cheeks, which quickly flushed red with the wind. He watched the progress of the crew and then nodded to his first officer.

  “Take her out, Mister Bishop.”

  “Raise anchor!” Bishop bellowed. “Wheel hard over!”

  Hadrian found a place among those at the capstan and pushed against the wooden spokes, rotating the large spool that lifted the anchor from the bottom of the harbor. With the anchor broken out, the wheel hard over, and the forecastle hands drawing at the headsail sheets, the Emerald Storm brought her bow around. As she gained steerage, she moved away from the dock and into the clear of the main channel, and the rigging crew dropped the remaining sails. The great canvasses quivered and flapped, snapping in the wind like three violent white beasts.

  “Hands to the braces!” Mister Temple barked, and the men took hold of the ropes, pulling the yards around until they caught the wind. The sails plumed full as the sea breeze stretched them taut, and Hadrian could feel the deck lurch beneath his feet as the Emerald Storm slipped forward through the water, rudder balanced against sail-pressure.

  They traveled down the coast, passing farmers and workers who paused briefly to look at the handsome vessel flying by. At the helm, Wyatt spun the wheel steering steadily out to sea. The men on the braces trimmed the yards so not a sail fluttered and sending the ship dashing through the waves as she raced from shore.

  “Course sou’east by south, sir,” Wyatt updated Temple, who repeated the statement to the lieutenant, who repeated it to the captain, who in turn nodded his approval.

  The men at the capstan dispersed, leaving Hadrian looking around for something to do. Royce descended to the deck beside him, neither one certain of his duty now that the ship was under way. It did not matter much as the lieutenant, the captain, and Temple were all busy on the quarterdeck. The other hands moved casually now, cleaning up the rigging, finishing the job of stowing the supplies, and generally settling in.

  “Why didn’t we ever consider sailing?” Hadrian asked Royce as he moved to the side and faced the wind. “When we were trying to find new professions, that is.” He took a deep, satisfying breath and smiled. “This is nice. A lot better than a sweaty, fly-plagued horse—and look at the land go by! How fast do you think we’re going?”

  “The fact that we’re trapped here, with no chance of retreat except into the ocean, doesn’t bother you?”

  Hadrian glanced over the side at the heaving waves. “Well, not until now. Why do you always have to ruin everything? Couldn’t you let me enjoy the moment?”

  “You know me, just trying to keep things in perspective.”

  “Our course is south, southeast. Any clue where we might be going?”

  Royce shook his head. “It only means we aren’t invading Melengar, but we could be headed just about anyplace else.”

  Someone arriving deck side caught his attention, “Who’s this now?”

  A man in red and black appeared from below and climbed the stair to the quarterdeck. He stood out from the rest of the crew by virtue of his pale skin and silken vestments, which were far too elegant for the setting and whipped about like streamers at a fair. He moved hunched over, his slumped shoulders reminded Hadrian of a crow shuffling along a branch. He sported a mustache and short goatee. His dark hair, combed back, emphasized a dramatically receding hairline.

  “Broken-crown crest,” Hadrian noted. “Seret.”

  “Red cassock,” Royce added. “Sentinel.”

  “At least he’s not Luis Guy. It’d be pretty hard to hide on a ship this size.”

  “If it was Guy,” Royce smiledue of kedly, “we wouldn’t need to hide.”<
br />
  Hadrian noticed Royce’s glance over the side of the ship at the water that foamed and churned as it rushed past.

  “If a sentinel is on board,” Royce continued, “we can assume there are seret as well. They never travel alone.”

  “Maybe below.”

  “Maybe disguised in the crew,” Royce cautioned.

  To starboard, a sailor dropped his burden on the deck and wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag. Noticing them standing idle, he walked over.

  “Yer good,” he said to Royce. “No man’s beaten Jacob aloft ’afore.”

  The sailor was tan and thin, with a tattoo of a woman on his forearm and a ring of silver in his ear.

  “I didn’t beat him. We landed together,” Royce corrected.

  “Aye, clever that. My name’s Grady. What do they call you?”

  “Royce, and this is Hadrian.”

  “Oh, yeah, the cook.” Grady looked at the thief studying him. “Royce, huh? I’m surprised I haven’t heard yer name ’afore. With skills like you got, I woulda figured you’d be famous. What ships ’ave you served on?”

  “None around these waters,” Royce replied.

  Grady looked at him curiously. “Where then? The Sound? Dagastan? The Sharon? Try me, I’ve been around a few places myself.”

  “Sorry, I’m really bad at remembering names.”

  Grady’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t remember the names of the ships you served on?”

  “I would prefer not to discuss them.”

  “Aye, consider the subject closed.” He looked at Hadrian. “You were with him then?”

  “We’ve worked together for some time.”

  Grady nodded. “Just forget I said anything. I won’t be getting in the way. You can bank money on Grady’s word, too.” The man winked, then walked away, glancing back over his shoulder at them a few times as he went off grinning.

  “Seems like a nice sort,” Hadrian said. “Strange and confusing, but nice. You think he knows why we’re here?”

  “Wish he did,” Royce replied, watching Grady resume his work. “Then he could tell us. Still, I’ve found that when hunting Merrick, stranger things have been known to happen. One thing’s for certain—this trip is going to be interesting.”