The Emerald Storm

by Michael J. Sullivan

  More than anything else, the sheer absurdity of the situation provided the greatest protection. No one would believe that a sheltered, self-indulgent princess would willingly scrub floors in the palace of her enemy. She doubted even Saldur’s mind would grant enough latitude to penetrate the illusion. Even if some thought she looked familiar—and several seemed to—their minds simply could not bend that far. They could no more accept that she was Arista Essendon than the notion of talking pigs or that Maribor was not god. To entertain such an idea would require a mind open to new possibilities, and no one at the palace fit that description.

  The only one she worried about, beside Saldur, was t empress’s secretary. She was not like the others—she noticed Arista. Amilia saw through her veneer with suspicious eyes. Saldur clearly surrounded the empress with his best and brightest and Arista did all she could to avoid her.

  On the road north from Ratibor, Arista fell in with a band of refugees fleeing to Aquesta and arrived nearly a month ago. The spell led her to the palace itself. Things grew more complicated after that. If she was more confident in the magic and her ability to use it, she might have returned to Melengar right away with the news that Gaunt was a prisoner in the imperial palace. As it was, she felt the need to see him for herself. She managed to obtain a job as a chamber maid, hoping to repeat the location spell inside the castle walls at various locations, only this turned out to be impossible. Closely watched by the headmistress, Edith Mon, she rarely found enough free time and privacy to cast the spell. On the few occasions she succeeded, the smoke indicated a direction but the maze of corridors blocked any attempt to follow. Magically stymied, Arista sought to determine Gaunt’s whereabouts by eavesdropping while at the same time learning her way around the grounds.

  “What have ya done now!” Edith Mon shouted at her, as Arista entered the scullery.

  Arista had no idea what a hobgoblin looked like, but she guessed it probably resembled Edith Mon. She was stocky and strong. Her huge head sat on her shoulders like a boulder, crushing whatever neck she might have once had. Her face, pockmarked and spotted, provided the perfect foundation for her broad nose with its flaring nostrils through which she breathed loudly, particularly when angry, as she was now.

  Edith yanked the bucket from her hands. “Ya clumsy little wench! Ya best pray you spilled it only on yerself. If I hear ya left a dirty puddle in a hallway…”

  Edith had threatened to cane her on three occasions, but was interrupted each time—twice by the head cook. Arista was not sure what she would do if it came to that. Scrubbing floors was one thing, but allowing herself to be whipped by an old hag was something else. If it came to that, Edith might discover there was more to her new chambermaid than she thought. Arista often amused herself by contemplating which curse might be best for old Edith. At that moment, she was considering the virtues of skin worms, but all she said was, “Is there anything else today?”

  The older woman glared. “Oh! You think yer sumptin’, don’t ya? You think yer better than the rest ’o us, that yer arse shines ’o silver. Well it don’t! Ya don’t even have a family. I know you live in that alley with the rest ’o them runners. Yer one dodgy smile away from makin’ yer meals whorin’, so I’d be careful sweetie!”

  There were several snickers from the other kitchen workers. Some risked Edith’s wrath by pausing in their work to watch. The scullery maids, charwomen, and chambermaids all reported to Edith. The others, like the cook, butcher, baker, and cupbearer reported to Ibis Thinly, but sided with Edith—after all Ella was the new girl and in the lives of those who lived in the scullery this was what passed for entertainment.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” Arista asked calmly.

  Edith’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “No, but tomorrow ya start by cleanin’ every chamber pot in the palace. Not just emptin’ them mind ya, I want them scrubbed clean.”

  Arista nodded and started to walk past her. As she did, cold water rained down as Edith emptied the remaining bucket on her.

  The room burst into an uproar of laughter. “A shame it wasn’t clean water, ya could use a bath.” Edith cackled.

  The uproar died abruptly as Ibis appeared from out of the cellar.

  “What’s going on here?” The chief cook’s booming voice drew everyone’s attention.

  “Nothing, Ibis,” Edith answered. “Just training one o’ my girls is all.”

  The cook spotted Arista standg in a puddle, drenched from head to foot. Her hair hung down her face, dripping filthy water. Her entire smock soaked through, the thin material clung indecently to her skin causing her to fold her arms across her breasts.

  Ibis scowled at Edith.

  “What is it, Ibis?” Edith grinned at him. “Don’t like my training methods?”

  “No, I can’t say I do. Why do you always have to treat them like this?”

  “What are you gonna do? You gonna take Ella under your wing like that tramp Amilia? Maybe this one will become archbishop!”

  There was another round of laughter.

  “Cora!” Ibis barked. “Get Ella a table cloth to wrap around her.”

  “Careful, Ibis. If she ruins it the chamberlain will have at you.”

  “And if Amilia hears you called her a tramp, you might lose your head.”

  “That little pretender doesn’t have the piss to do anything against me.”

  “Maybe,” the chief cook said, “but she’s one of them now, and I’ll bet that any noble who heard that you insulted one of their own—well, they might take it personally.”

  Edith’s grin disappeared and the laughter vanished with it.

  Cora returned with a tablecloth, which Ibis folded twice before wrapping around Arista’s shoulders. “I hope you have another tunic at home, Ella, it’s gonna be cold tonight.”

  Arista thanked him before heading out the scullery door. It was already dark and, just as Ibis had predicted, cold. Autumn was in full swing and the night air shocked her wet body. The castle courtyard was nearly empty with only a few late carters dragging their wagons out through the main gate. A page raced between the stables and the keep hauling armloads of wood, but most of the daily throng of activity that usually defined the yard was absent. She passed through the great gates where the guards ignored her. The moment she reached the bridge, and stepped beyond the protection of the keep’s walls, the full force of the wind struck her. She clenched her jaw to stifle a cry, hugged her body with fingers turning red, and shivered so badly it was hard to walk.

  Not skin worms. No. Not nearly bad enough.

  “Oh, dear!” Mrs. Barker exclaimed, and rushed over as Arista entered Brisbane Alley. “What happened child? Not that Edith Mon again?”

  Arista nodded.

  “What was it this time?”

  “I spilled some wash water.”

  Mrs. Barker shook her head and sighed. “Well, come over to the fire and try and dry off before you catch your death.”

  She coaxed Arista to the communal fire pit. Brisbane Alley was literally the end of the road in Aquesta, a wretched little dirt patch behind Brickton’s Tannery where the stench from the curing hides kept away any except the most desperate. Newcomers without money, relatives, or connections settled here. The lucky ones lived huddled under canvas sheets, carts, and the wagons they arrived in. The rest, like Arista, simply huddled against the tannery wall trying to block the wind as they slept. That is, until the Barkers adopted her.

  Brice Barker worked shouting advertisements through the city streets for seven coppers a day. All of that went to buy food to feed six children and his wife. Lynnette Barker took in what sewing work she could find. When the weather turned colder, they offered Arista a place under their wagon. She had only known them for a few weeks, but already she loved them like her own family.

  “Here, Ella,” Lynnette said, bringing an old kirtle for her to put on. The dress was little more than a rag, worn thin and frayed along the hem. Lynette also brought Esrahaddon’s robe. Arista went aroun
d the corner and slipped out of her wet things. Lynnette’s dress did nothing to keep out the cold, but the robe vanquished the wet chill instantly in uncompromising warmth.

  “That’s really a wonderful robe, Ella,” Lynnette told her, marveling at how the firelight made it shimmer and reflect colors. “Where did you get it?”

  “A…friend left it to me when he died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, sadly. Her expression changed then from sadness to concern. “That reminds me, a man was looking for you.”

  “A man?” Arista asked as she folded the tablecloth. If anything happened to it, Edith would make Ibis pay.

  “Yes, earlier today. He spoke to Brice while he was working on the street and mentioned he was looking for a young woman. He described you perfectly, although oddly enough, he didn’t know your name.”

  “What did he look like?” Arista hoped her concern was not reflected in her voice.

  “Well,” Lynnette faltered, “that’s the thing. He wore a dark hood and a scarf wrapped about his face so Brice didn’t get a good look at him.”

  Immediately seized with fear, Arista pulled the robe tightly about her. Was he here? Had the assassin managed to track her down? Lynnette noticed the change in her and asked, “Are you in trouble, Ella?”

  “Did Brice say I lived here?”

  “No, of course not. Brice is many things, but he’s no fool.”

  “Did he give a name?”

  Lynnette shook her head. “You can ask Brice about him when he returns. He and Wery went to buy flour. They should be back soon.”

  “Speaking of that,” Arista said, fishing coins out of her wet dress, “here’s three copper tenents. They paid me this morning.”

  “Oh, no. We couldn’t—”

  “Of course, you can! You let me sleep under your wagon, and you watch my things when I’m at work. You even let me eat with you.”

  “But three! That’s your whole pay, Ella, you won’t have anything left.”

  “I’ll get by. They feed me at the palace sometimes, and my needs are pretty simple.”

  “But you’ll want a new set of clothes, and you’ll need shoes come winter.”

  “So will your children, and you won’t be able to afford them without an extra three coppers a day.”

  “No, no—we can’t. It is very nice of you, but—”

  “Ma! Ma! Come quick! It’s Wery!” Finis, the Barkers’ eldest son raced down the street shouting as he came. He looked frightened, his eyes filled with tears.

  Lynnette lifted her skirt and Arista chased after. They rushed to Coswall Avenue where a crowd formed outside the bakery. Pushing past them, a boy lay unconscious on the cobblestone.

  “Oh, sweet Maribor!” Lynnette cried, falling to her knees beside her son.

  Brice knelt on the stone holding Wery in his arms. Blood soaked his hands and tunic. The boy’s eyes were closed, his matted hair slick as if dipped in red ink.

  “He fell from the baker’s loft,” Finis answered their unasked question, his voice quavering. “He was pulling one of them heavy flour bags down cause the baker said he’d sell us two cups for the price of one if he did. Pa and I told him to wait fer us, but he ran up, like he’s always doin’. He was pulling real hard. As hard as he could and then his hands slipped. He stumbled backward and…” Finis was talking fast, his voice rising as he did until it cracked and he stopped.

  “Hit his head on the cobblestones,” declared a stranger in a white apron holding a lantern. Arista thought he might be the baker. “I’m real sorry. I didn’t think the boy would hurt himself like this.”

  Lynnette ignored the man and pried her child from her husband, pulling Wery to her breast. She rocked him as if he were a newborn. “Wake up, honey,” she whispered, softly. Tears fell on Wery’s blood soaked cheeks. “Please baby, oh for the love of Maribor please wake up! Please, oh please…”

  “Lynn, honey…” Brice started.

  “NO!” she shouted at him, and tightened her grip on the boy.

  Arista stared at the scene, her throat tight, her eyes filling so quickly she could not see clearly. Wery was a wonderful boy, playful, friendly. He reminded her of Fanen Pickering, which only made mattered,orse. But Fanen died with a sword in his hand, and Wery was only eight and likely never touched a weapon in his short life. She could not understand why such things happened to good people. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she watched the small figure of the boy dying in his mother’s arms.

  Arista closed her eyes wiping the tears, and when she opened them again she noticed several people in the crowd backing away.

  Her robe was glowing.

  Giving off a pale light the shimmering material illuminated those around her in an eerie white radiance. Lynnette saw the glow and hope filled her face. She looked up at Arista, her eyes pleading. “Ella, can…can you save him?” she asked with trembling lips and desperate eyes. Arista began to form the word no, but Lynnette quickly spoke again. “You can!” she insisted. “I know you can! I’ve always known there was something different about you. The way you talk, the way you act. The way you forget your own name, and that—that robe! You can save him. I know you can. Oh, please, Ella,” she paused and swallowed, shaking so hard it made Wery’s head rock. “Oh, Ella I know—I know it’s so much more than three coppers, but he’s my baby! You will help him won’t you? Please, oh please, Ella.”

  Arista could not breathe. She felt her heart pounding in her ears and her body trembled. Everyone silently watched her. Even Lynette stopped her pleading. Arista found herself saying through quivering lips, “Lay him down.”

  Lynnette gently lowered Wery’s body, his limbs lifeless, his head tilted awkwardly to one side. Blood continued to seep from the boy’s wound.

  Arista knelt beside him and placed a hand on the boy’s chest. He was still breathing, but so shallow, so weak. She closed her eyes and began to hum softly. She heard the soft concerned mutterings of those in the crowd and, one by one, she tuned them out. She heard the heartbeats of the men and women surrounding her and forced them out as well. Then she heard the wind. Soft and gentle it was there, moving, swirling between the buildings, across the street, skipping over stones. Above her, she felt the twinkle of the stars, and the smile of the moon. Her hand was on the body of the boy, but her fingers felt the strings of the instrument that she longed to play.

  The gentle wind grew stronger. The swirl became an eddy, the eddy, a whirlwind, and the whirlwind, a vortex. Her hair whipped madly, but she hardly noticed. Before her lay a void, and beyond it a distant light. She could see him in the darkness, a dull silhouette before the brilliance, growing smaller as it traveled away. She shouted to him. He paused. She strummed the chords and the silhouette turned. Then, with all her strength, she clapped her hands together and the sound was thunder.

  When she opened her eyes, the light from the robe had faded and the crowd stood silently in shock.

  Chapter 10

  Fallen Star

  “Sail ho!” the lookout shouted from the masthead.

  The Emerald Storm was now two weeks out of Aquesta, slipping across the placid waters of the Ghazel Sea. The wind remained blowing from the southwest, and since rounding the Horn of Delgos they had made slow progress. The ship was close-hauled, struggling to gain headway into the wind. Mister Temple kept the top crews busy tacking the ship round, wearing windward, and keeping their course by crossing back and forth, but Hadrian guessed that a quickly walking man could make faster progress.

  It was mid morning and seamen who were not in the rigging or otherwise engaged in the ship’s navigation were busy scrubbing the deck with sandstone blocks or flogging it dry. All the midshipmen were on the quarterdeck taking instruction in navigation from Mister Bishop. Hadrian heard the lookout’s call as he returned to the galley after delivering the previous evening’s pork grease. Making his way to the port side, he spotted a small whi square on the horizon. Bishop immediately suspended class and took an eyeglass to see for
himself, then sent a midshipman to the captain’s cabin. The captain came so quickly he was still adjusting his hat as he appeared on the quarterdeck. He paused for a moment, tugged on his uniform, and sniffed the air with a wrinkle of his nose.

  “Lookout report!” he called to the masthead.

  “Two ships, off the port bow, sir!”

  Hadrian looked again and just as the lookout reported, he spotted a second sail now visible above the line of the water.

  “The foremost is showing two squares—appears to be a lugger. The farther ship…I’m seeing two red lateen sails, single-decked, possibly a tartane. They’re running with the wind and closing fast, sir.”

  “What flag are they flying?”

  “Can’t say sir, the wind has them flying straight at us.”

  Hadrian watched the ships approach, amazed at their speed. Already he could see them clearly.

  “This could be trouble,” Poe said.

  Hadrian had been so intent on the ships he failed to notice his assistant appear beside him. The thin rail of a boy was busy tying the black ribbon in his ponytail as he stared out at the vessels.

  “How’s that?”

  “Those red sails.”

  Hadrian showed he didn’t understand the significance.

  “Only the Dacca use them.”

  “Beat to quarters, Mister Bishop,” the captain ordered.

  “All hands on station!” the lieutenant shouted. “Beat to quarters!”

  Immediately, Hadrian heard a drum roll across the ship. The boatswain and his mates took action, clearing the deck of the scrubbers. The midshipmen dispersed to their stations shouted orders to their crews.

  “Come on!” Poe told him.

  There was a pile of briquettes at the protected center of the forecastle, which Hadrian ignited with hot coals from the galley stove as soon as the surrounding deck had been soaked. Around it, archers prepped their arrows with oil. Seamen brought dozens of buckets of seawater, along with buckets of sand, and positioned them around the ship. It took only minutes to secure for battle and then they waited.