The ships were closer and larger now, but still the flags they flew were invisible. The Storm remained deathly silent, the only sound coming from the wind, waves, and the creaking hull. A random gust fluttered the lugger’s flag.
“They’re flying the Gribbon of Calis, sir!” the lookout shouted.
“Mister Wesley,” the captain addressed the midshipman stationed on the quarterdeck. “You’ve studied signals?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Take a glass and get aloft. Mister Temple, run up our name and request theirs.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Still no one moved or spoke. All eyes were on the approaching vessels.
“Lead vessel is the Bright Star, aft vessel is…” Wesley hesitated. “Aft vessel isn’t responding, sir.”
“Two points ’a port!” the captain shouted abruptly, and Wyatt spun the wheel, weathering the ship as close to the wind as possible, heading them directly toward the lugger. The topmen went into action like a hundred spiders crawling along the shrouds, working to grab every bit of wind possible.
“New signal from the Bright Star,” Wesley shouted. “Hostile ship astern!”
Small streaks of smoke flew through the otherwise clear sky. The tartane was firing arrows at the Bright Star, but the shots fell short falling into the sea a good two hundred yards astern.
“Ready the forward ballista!” the captain ordered, and a squad of men on the forecastle began to crank a small capstan, which ratcheted the massive bowstring into firing position. They lighted another brazier in advance of the stanchion, as an incendiary bolt was loaded. Then they waited, once more watching the ships sail closer.
Everything about the Dacca ship was exotic. Made of dark wood, the vessel glittered with gold swirls artfully painted along the hull. She bore long decorative pendants of garish, bright colors. A stylized image of a black dragon in flight adorned the scarlet mainsail and on the bowsprit was the head of a ghoulish beast with bright emerald eyes. The sailors appeared as foreign as the ship. They were dark-skinned, powerful brutes wearing only bits of red cloth wrapped around their waists.
Poorly handled, the Bright Star lost the wind and her momentum. Behind her, the tartane descended. Another volley of arrows from the Dacca smoked through the air. This time several struck the Bright Star in the stern, but one lucky shot made it to the mainsail setting it aflame.
Although victorious over the lugger, the tartane chose to flee before the approaching Emerald Storm. It came about and Hadrian watched Captain Seward ticking off the distance as the Storm inched toward it. Even after the time lost during the turn, the Dacca ship was still out of ballista range.
“Helm-a-lee. Bring her over!” the captain shouted. “Tacks and sheets!”
The Emerald Storm swung round to the same tack as the tartane, but the Storm did not have the momentum under her, nor the nimbleness of the smaller ship. The tartane was the faster vessel, and all that the crew of the Emerald Storm could do was watch as the Dacca sailed out of reach.
Seeing the opportunity lost, Captain Seward ordered the Storm heaved-to and the long boats launched. The Bright Star’s mainsail and mast burned like a giant torch. Stays and braces snapped and the screams of men announced the fall of the flaming canvas to the deck. Still, the ship’s momentum carried it astern of them. As it passed, they could see the terrified sailors struggling hopelessly to put out the flames that enveloped the deck. Before the long boats were in the water, the Bright Star was an inferno with most of the crew already in the sea.
The boats returned laden with frantic men. Nearly all were tawny-skinned, dark-eyed sailors dressed in whites and grays. They lay across the deck coughing and spitting water, thanking Maribor and each member of the crew who came near.
***
The Bright Star was an independent Wesbaden trader from Dagastan heading home to western Calis with a load of coffee, cane, and indigo. Despite the Storm’s timely intervention, more than a third of the small crew perished. Some passed out in the smoke while fighting the flames, while others remained trapped below deck. The captain of the Bright Star perished, struck by one of the fiery arrows the Dacca had rained on his vessel. This left only twelve men, five of whom lay in Doctor Levy’s care with burns.
Mister Temple sized up the able-bodied survivors and added them to the ship’s complement. Royce was back at work aloft as Hadrian finished serving dinner to the crew. Hadrian’s friendly attitude and generosity with the galley grease had won several friends. There had been no more attempts on Royce’s life, but they still did not know why his friend had been targeted, or by whom. For the moment, it was enough that Defoe, Derning, and Staul remained at a safe distance.
“Aye, this is Calis not Avryn.” Hadrian heard one of the new seamen saying in a harsh gravelly voice, as he brought down the last messkid. “The light of civilization grows weak like a candle in a high easterly wind and the farther east you go the stronger the wind blows till out she goes and in the darkness ye stand!”
A large number of the off watch clustered around an aft table, where three of the new sailors sat.
“Then there you are in the world of the savage,” the Calian sailor went on. “A strange place me lads, a strange place indeed. Harsh violent seas and jagged inlets of black toothed rock, gripped tight by dense jungle. The netherworld of the Ba Ran Ghazel, the heart o’ darkness is a place of misery and despair, the pris/p>
re Novron drove the beasties to their eternal punishment. They can’t help but try to get out. They look at the coasts of Calis with hungry eyes and they find footholds. Like lichen, they slip in and grow everywhere. The Calians try to push them back, but it be like trying to swat a sky of flies or hold water in yer hands.” He cupped his hands pretending to lose something between his fingers.
“Goblin and man living so close together taint natural,” another said.
The first sailor nodded gravely. “But nothin’ in them jungles be natural. They have been linked for two long and the Sons of Maribor and the Spawn of Oberlin be warring one moment, then trading the next. Just to survive, the Calian warlords took to the ways of the goblins and, in so doing spread the cursed practices of the Ba Ran to their kin. Some of these warlords are more goblin now than men. They even worship the dark god, burning tulan leaves and making sacrifices. They live like beasts and at night the moon makes them wild and in the darkness their eyes glow red!”
Several of the men made sounds of disbelief.
“It’s the truth, me lads! Centuries ago when the first empire fell, the eastern lords were abandoned to their fate. Left alone in the deep dark of the Calian jungles, they lost their humanity. Now the great stone fortresses along the Goblin Sea that once guarded the land from invasion be the home of Tenkin warlords—half human, half goblin monsters. They’ve turned their backs on the face of Maribor and embraced the ways of the Ghazel. Aye, me fellows, the state of Calis is a fearful one. So, thankful we be for your daring act of kindness, for we’d be at the mercy of fate if ya hadn’t pulled us from the sea. If it wasn’t for your bravery, we’d surely be dead now…or worse”
“Wasn’t much bravery needed,” Daniels said. “The Storm could have whipped those buggers in a dead calm with half the crew drunk and the other half sick with the fever.”
“Is that what you think?” Wyatt asked. Hadrian did not notice him sitting silently in the gloom beyond the circle of the candle’s light. “Is that what you all think?” His tone was oddly harsh—challenging. Wyatt sighed, and with an exasperated shake of his head, got up and climbed the ladder to the deck.
Having finished with the messkids, Hadrian followed. He found the helmsman on the forecastle, his hands gripping the rail as he stared at the shimmer of the new moon rolling on the back of the black sea.
“What’s that all about?”
“We’re in trouble and—” he paused angrily motioning at the quarterdeck but catching himself and clenching his teeth as if by doing so he could trap the words inside of his mout
h.
“What kind of trouble?” Hadrian glanced at the quarterdeck.
“The captain doesn’t want me to say anything. He’s a damn fool who won’t listen to reason. I should disobey him and alter the ship’s course right now. I could relieve Bliden on the wheel early and take us off course, no one would know until the reckoning is taken tomorrow at noon.”
“Wesley would know.” Hadrian pointed to the young man climbing to the quarterdeck on his nightly round as officer of the first watch. “He’d have you hauled to Mister Bishop before you could blink.”
“I could deal with Wesley if I had to. The deck is slippery, you know?”
“Now you’re starting to sound like Royce. What’s going on?”
“I suppose if I am contemplating killing a midshipman it hardly matters if I break captain’s orders to keep quiet.” Wyatt looked once again at the sea. “They’re coming back.”
“Who?”
“The Dacca. They didn’t run, they’re regrouping.” He looked at Hadrian. “They dye their sails with the blood of their enemies mixed with wild berries, did you know that? Hundreds of small ruddy-red boats line the coves and ports of their island. They know we’re hugging the coast and sailing against the wind. They’ll chase us down like wolves. Ten, twenty lateen rigged tartanes will catch the wind that we can’t. The Storm won’t stand a chance.”
“What makes you so sure? You could be wrong and the captain would have good reason to stay on course.”
“I’m not wrong.”
Chapter 11
The Hooded Man
The hooded man walked away again.
Arista cowered deeper into the shadows under the tavern steps. She wanted to disappear, to become invisible. Her robe had turned a dingy brown, blending with the dirty wood. Drawing up the hood, she waited. It was him—the same man Lynette described. He was looking for her. She heard the sound of his boots on the cobblestone. They slowed, hesitated, then grew louder.
He was coming back again!
The tall, dark figure appeared at the end of the alley for the third time. He paused. She held her breath. The streetlamps revealed a frightening figure dressed in a black hooded cloak with a thick scarf hiding his face. He wore an unseen sword—she could hear the telltale clap.
He took a tentative step toward her hiding place, then another, then paused. The light’s glare exposed white puffs issuing from his scarf. His head turned from side to side. He stood for several seconds, then pivoted so sharply his boot heel dug a tiny depression in the gravel, and walked away. After several tense minutes Arista carefully crept out.
He was gone.
The first light of dawn rose in the east. If only she could make it back to the palace. At least there she would be safe from the assassin and away from the inevitable questions: “Who is she? How did she do it? Is she a witch?”
She had left Brisbane Alley before anyone thought to ask, but what after? She had drawn too much attention, and—although she doubted anyone would connect the dots—the unabashed use of magic would cause a stir.
Removing the robe she carefully tucked it under the tavern steps and set off toward the palace. The guards ignored her as usual and she went about her tasks without incident. Throughout the day she had the good fortune to work relatively unnoticed, but by midday news of her actions the night before had reached the palace. Everyone buzzed about the disturbance on Coswell Street. A boy had been brought back to life. By evening, rumors named the Witch of Melengar as the culprit. Luckily, no one suspected the scrub girl Ella of any more wrongdoing than failing to return the borrowed tablecloth.
She was exhausted. It was not merely losing a night’s sleep while avoiding the assassin. Saving Wery had drained her. After leaving the palace, she returned to the alley and retrieved the wizard’s robe. She did not dare put it on for fear someone might recognize it. She rolled it up and, clutching it to her chest, stood on the edge of the broad avenue, unable to decide what to do next. Staying would be sheer stupidity. Looking down the broad length of Grand Avenue, she could see the front gates of the city. It felt like a lifetime since she was home. It would be so good to see a familiar face, to hear her brother’s voice—to rest.
She knew she should leave. She should go that very minute, but she was so tired. The idea of setting out into the cold dark, alone and hungry, was too much. She desperately needed a safe place to sleep, a hot meal, and a friendly face—which meant just one thing—the Barkers. Besides, she could not leave without retrieving the pearl-handled hairbrush, the last remaining keepsake from her father.
Nothing had changed at the end of Brisbane Alley. The length was still dotted with small campfires and littered with bulky shadows of makeshift tents, carts, wagons, and barrels. People moved about in the growing dark. Some glanced at her as she passed, but no one spoke or approached her. She found the Barkers’ wagon and as always, a great tarp stretched out from it like a porch awning. One of the bys spotted her and a moment later Lynette rushed out. Without a word, she threw her arms around Arista and squeezed tightly.
“Come, have something to eat,” she said, wiping her cheeks and leading Arista by the hand. Lynette laid a pot on the fire. “I saved some just in case. I had to hide it, of course, or the vultures would have gobbled it all down. I wasn’t sure you’d be back…”
The rest of the Barkers gathered around the fire. The boys, Finis and Hingus, sat on the far side. Brice Barker, dressed in his usual white shirt and gray trousers, sat on an upturned crate whittling a bit of wood. No one spoke. Arista took a seat on a wooden box feeling awkward. Although they tried not to, all of them stared.
Is that apprehension in their eyes, or outright fear?
“Ella?” Lynette finally asked in a small, tentative voice. “Who are you?”
“I can’t tell you that,” she said after a long pause. She expected them to balk or argue, instead, they all nodded silently as if expecting her answer just as she had expected their question.
“I don’t care who you are, you’re always welcome at this fire,” Brice said. He kept his eyes on the flames, but his words betrayed an emotion she did not expect. Brice, who made his living shouting in the streets all day, hardly ever spoke.
Lynette dished out the bit of stew she had warmed up. “I wish there was more. If I had only known you’d be back.”
“How is Wery?” Arista asked.
“He slept all night, but was up most of the day running around causing a nuisance as usual. Everyone who’s seen him is saying the same thing—it was a miracle.”
“Everyone?” Arista asked with concern.
“Folks been stopping by all day to see him and asking about you. Many said they had sick children or loved ones who are dying. One got so angry he knocked down the canvas and nearly upset the wagon before Finis brought Brice home to clear him out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t be! Please—no—don’t ever be sorry,” Lynette pleaded. She paused, her eyes tearing again. “You won’t be able to stay with us anymore, will you?”
Arista shook her head.
“The hooded man?”
“And others.”
“I wish I could help,” Lynette said.
Arista leaned over and hugged her. “You have…more than you’ll ever know. If I could just get a good night’s sleep, then I—”
“Of course you can. Sleep in the wagon, it’s the least we can do.”
Arista was too exhausted to argue. She climbed up and, in the privacy of the wagon, put the robe on to fight away the night’s cold. She crawled across a lumpy bedding of coarse cloth that smelled of potatoes and onions and laid her head down at last. It felt so good to close her eyes and let her muscles and mind go. She could hear them whispering outside, trying not to disturb her.
“She’s a servant of Maribor,” one of the boys said. She could not tell which. “That’s why she can’t say. The gods never let them say.”
“Or she could be Kile—a god disguised and doi
ng good deeds,” the other added. “I heard he gets feathers from Muriel’s cloak for each one he does.”
“Hush! She’ll hear you,” Lynette scolded. “Go clean that pot.”
Arista fell asleep to their whispers and woke to loud voices.
“I tell you I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know anything about a witch.” It was Brice’s voice and he sounded frightened.
Arista peered out from the wagon. An imperial soldier stood holding a torch, his way blocked by Brice. Behind him, farther up the alley, other soldiers pounded on the door to the tannery, and forced their way into the other tents.
“Sergeant,” the man in front of Brice called, “over here!”
Three soldiers walked fast, their armor jangling, hard boots hammering the cobblestone.
“Tear down this hovel and search it,” the Sergeantered. “Continue to do the same for all these places. They’re an eyesore and should be removed anyway.”
“Leave them alone,” Arista said, stepping out of the wagon. “They haven’t done anything.”
“Ella!” Brice snapped. “Stay out of this.”
The sergeant moved briskly toward Arista but Brice stepped in the way.
“Leave my daughter alone,” he threatened.
“Brice, no,” Arista whispered.
“I am only here for the witch,” the soldier told them. “But if you insist I will be happy to torch every tent in this alley.”
“She’s no witch!” Lynette cried, clutching Wery to her side. “She saved my baby. She’s a servant of Maribor!”
The sergeant studied Arista briefly, sucking on his front teeth.
“Bind her!” he ordered.
Two of his men stepped forward with a length of rope and grabbed hold of Arista by her arms. They immediately cried out in pain, let go, and stumbled backward. One fell over a bucket. Esrahaddon’s robe glowed a deep pulsating red. The guards glared at her in fear, shaking their injured hands.
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