Valour and Vanity

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  “Oh, but—” Mrs. Ellsworth’s newest protestation was cut short by a cabin boy, who ran up to Vincent and bowed. In rapid Italian, he asked pardon for interrupting and let them know that Captain Rosolare wished them to board.

  Vincent thanked the youth in Italian. Turning back to the party gathered on the dock, he offered a bow. “We must take our leave.”

  The next few moments passed in a jumble of heartfelt farewells. Mrs. Ellsworth abandoned her attempts to prevent them from leaving, though she did make extravagant use of her handkerchief. After so long travelling together, Jane had to admit to some melancholy at separating from the rest of the party.

  But it was with great relief that she followed Vincent up the gangplank and aboard the ship.

  * * *

  The departure from Trieste had the familiar rhythms of any sea voyage, as sailors called to each other in voices that seemed brined from their time at sea. Ropes, thick as Jane’s wrist, got tossed from dock to ship as they cast off. For a moment, the Ophelia seemed to lumber as a tug pulled it away from the dock; then the sails rose, catching the air with their flutter till they filled.

  The time aboard passed with more speed than Jane anticipated, as she stared over the water and relished these idle moments with Vincent away from the constant requirements of her family. The salt air carried her tension across the waves.

  It seemed they had but just left Trieste when the captain announced that they were already half-way to Venice. She sat with Vincent in the bow of the ship, using a coil of rope as their bench. The ship skipped over the brilliant cerulean waves, tossing the salt spray back into their faces. The remnants of the nuncheon they had packed in Trieste sat between them, the crumbs of a pastry sharing space on oilcloth with dried figs.

  Vincent lifted a silver travel cup of wine and peered at it. “One wonders what wine Homer was drinking when he spoke of the wine-dark sea.”

  “Certainly a vintage no longer known, if it matched the sea.” Jane inhaled the sea air, pressing her ribs against her short stays. “That colour. I cannot imagine a glamour that could re-create something so vibrant.”

  Forgetting for a moment the effect of travel on glamour, she reached into the ether and pulled forth a fold. The ship’s motion pulled the glamour out of her fingers before she could make even a single twist. It rippled like a film of oil before vanishing back into the ether. Jane blushed at her foolishness. It took enormous energy to work glamour while walking even a few steps, and here she had tried it on a moving ship. The inability to work glamour at sea was what had given Lord Nelson the advantage against Napoleon’s fleet during the blockade.

  “Do that again.” Vincent set his cup down on the deck. His gaze took on the vacant stare of someone looking deep into the ether.

  “Have you an idea?”

  “Merely a curiosity, which might become an idea later.”

  “You intrigue me.” Jane reached for the glamour again. It slid through her hands so that she almost could not catch it in the first place. She lost control of the fold. It tickled under her fingers and sprang free. Jane laughed in surprised delight at the rainbow, which spread and shimmered in the air.

  “I have not had the opportunity to see glamour dissolve like this. Only read the theory.” Vincent reached into the ether himself. His fingers hooked on a fold, tightening. Then it sprang free. The coruscating colours flowed back in the ship’s wake. He turned to watch it, and a slow smile spread across his face.

  He reached for the glamour again, snatching wildly like a kitten reaching for a feather. Again, it tugged free of his fingers. Vincent threw back his head and laughed. Giggling, Jane joined him.

  She could only imagine what the Prince Regent would say if he could see his favourite glamourists essentially blowing soap bubbles with glamour. There was something delightful about the sheer wildness.

  Jane pulled out another fold and spread her fingers as she released it, fracturing the rainbow into a half dozen pieces. “Look, the way you release it affects the shape of the … of the oil film.”

  Vincent grinned. “Apt name. Perhaps an oil of light?”

  “Oiled glamour?”

  “Glamoil?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  He laughed and curved his hand so that the glamour slid over his palm in a patchwork cord of undulating light. “I recall Young experimenting with using multiple glamourists to try to stabilise the glamour.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Not even a little.” He pulled another thread, which evaporated as readily as its predecessors. “I wonder what would happen if we brought our Verre Obscurci aboard a ship. It worked when carried.”

  Jane considered. The sphere they had created bent light in the same twists as a glamourist’s hands but did not require a glamourist to hold it steady. “That shall be something to try, if we can fashion a new one.”

  The lookout shouted from the crow’s-nest, his words snatched away so that only his tone reached them. The ship’s crew suddenly sprang into action, raising sails as the boat became an explosion of canvas. Jane looked toward the horizon in front of them. “Not Venice, so soon?”

  “No.” Vincent stood slowly, looking behind them. “It is absurd that my first thought is a desire to keep this from your mother.”

  The look of dread on his face made Jane turn in her seat. A ship sailed toward them. Even to her untutored eye, the cannons upon its decks were obvious. “Is that…”

  “A Barbary corsair. Yes.”

  Two

  Corsairs

  Jane stared at her husband for a moment. Her breath felt as though it had been ripped from her body like glamour on a ship. “Pirates.”

  Vincent gave her a small, tight smile. “May I ask you to go below, Muse?”

  “You ask me to go below as though you are not coming.”

  “I have some skill with weapons and might be of use in repelling the boarders.” He squinted at the ship behind them. In the few moments since it had first been spied, it had visibly gained on them.

  “You do not mean to fight. Vincent, tell me that you do not.” She knew that he had more than just a familiarity with weapons. His father’s insistence on perfection in all the accomplishments required of gentlemen meant that her husband was more skilled with the sword than most of his peers.

  “They take slaves.” He gave a grin that was half grimace. “I must defend you or your mother will never let me hear the last of this.”

  Amidships, the captain directed his crew to try to increase their speed. The first mate, a slender young man with dark curls, raised his hands and bellowed to the other passengers, who moved about the deck in a circling, confused mass, very much in the way. “Signore e signori, devo chiedervi di andare sotto coperta per la vostra sicurezza.”

  For a moment, Jane was so astonished that she could not understand his Italian, for all that her music-master had insisted that she master the language in order to sing it properly. Then her senses restored themselves, and she understood him to say, “Ladies and gentlemen. I must ask you to go below deck for your safety.” No doubt he also wanted to get them out of the way of the crew.

  Jane stood and gathered their nuncheon into an untidy bundle. She loathed the idea of leaving Vincent exposed on the deck, but was forced to acknowledge that she would only be in the way. “Very well. Promise me that you will be careful. Or at least as careful as one can be while holding a gun.”

  “Likely a sword.” Vincent escorted her down from the bow. “I doubt any member of the crew will give a pistol to an unknown person. A sword, though … the captain will have arms for just such an event.”

  “It disturbs me that you know this.” Jane tried to keep her tone light to mask her fear as they hurried across the deck.

  “The benefits of a thorough education. They shall fire the cannon twice in warning. Do not let this distress you. They want the ship as a prize, so will be unlikely to harm it.”

  “But the passengers aboard … You said they took
slaves.”

  “They … yes. They do. I would wish that unsaid.”

  “But it would be no less true if you had been silent.” She gave a breathless laugh. “I hope I shall not have reason to be thankful that I am so plain.”

  Vincent stopped at the ladder leading below deck. He turned her toward him and rested his hands on her shoulders. “I love you, Jane.”

  The use of her Christian name, rather than his pet name, almost undid her resolve. That, more than his talk of swords or guns, told her how very serious the coming encounter was.

  She stood on her toes and kissed him in answer. His hands tightened on her shoulders, and he replied with a fervour that he had only ever shown in the privacy of their own home, heedless of the crew members around them.

  Vincent stepped back, cheeks flushed. “Now. Go below, and I shall see you after.”

  Clutching the cloth with the remnants of their nuncheon, Jane followed the other passengers below deck. There, a sailor led them down a dark, narrow passage to what must be the captain’s cabin.

  As he locked the door to secure them, Jane pulled off her bonnet. The cabin had a single berth affixed against one wall and a broad table with chairs enough for a dinner of eight. Windows looked out the side of the boat to provide illumination as well as a view of the sea. In the distance, they could see a dark smudge along the horizon. The Italian coast was so close to hand.

  If they could but outrun the corsairs, then they would be safe.

  The cabin was occupied with the other passengers on the ship. Two gentlemen stood in tight conversation in one corner and only glanced round as Jane came in. The younger of the two raised his eyebrows in astonishment. Jane ran a hand over her close-clipped hair. She had been travelling with family so much that she had forgotten that it would seem strange to other people.

  The other inmates consisted of three women and their children—two daughters approaching marriageable age and three boys, one still in leading strings. One of the older women knelt with her head bowed in prayer in front of a gilded crucifix, which the captain had affixed to one wall. Her hushed voice tumbled out in Italian at a rate too fast for Jane to make out.

  Another woman had taken a seat on the captain’s berth with two girls on either side of her. Were it not for the looks of terror on their faces, they would have made a pretty picture in their dark curls and simple travelling dresses. One of the little boys sat at the woman’s feet, playing with a toy soldier. He was no more than two, the same age Jane’s child would have been if she had not—she pushed the thought aside as indulgent, and continued her examination of the room.

  The other two boys had their faces pressed against the window, clearly trying to see the corsairs. Their faces were bright with the elation that comes of ignorance. To them, this was nothing but a game. Their mother stood behind them, hand pressed to her mouth as though to keep herself from speaking.

  She looked round as Jane entered, saw that she was merely another woman, and went back to studying the sea.

  The older of the gentlemen broke off his conference and crossed the room to her. He walked with a slight limp, assisted by a fine ebony cane. His hair had silvered, but aside from that, he still had the bearing of a younger man.

  He addressed her in Italian. “Madam, please make yourself easy.” He frowned and looked past her to the door. “But where is your husband?”

  “Sir?” Jane replied in the same language.

  “I saw you on deck. He is a glamourist, is he not?”

  “I—Yes.” She did not need to make the point that she was Vincent’s creative partner—in this moment, the error was a trivial concern. “He stayed above to assist the captain in repelling boarders.”

  The gentleman winced. “I see that my conception of artists is an ill-founded one. Most would not choose to stay, I think.”

  Jane raised a brow. “I do not believe that is a motivation confined to artists.”

  He offered her a small bow. “A fair point, madam. It is likely, however, that his valour will be unnecessary. We are not far from the coast, and the captain will outrun them.”

  “But if he does not?”

  He raised his cane. Twisting the head, he withdrew it enough to allow a peek of the shining steel blade encased within. “Then … that would be unfortunate. But there is no need to worry about that which might not be.” He pulled a chair out for Jane. “Please, madam.”

  Jane took the seat he offered, though a part of her wanted to join the woman who was praying. After seeing her settled, the gentleman took his leave and returned to his conference with the other man. The younger man had a dissipated look, which sometimes afflicts young men of fashion. He held a satchel and fidgeted with its catch as he stared out the window. He, too, looked as though he wanted something useful to do.

  In many ways, the only one who was not waiting for someone else to take action was the woman who prayed. She was at least making a direct appeal instead of fretting idly. Their course had been set the moment the corsairs had spotted them. The only hope now was that they might outrun the pirates and reach the safety of the Venetian coast.

  Jane pushed her chair back and crossed the room to kneel in front of the crucifix. Perhaps prayer only provided an illusion of control, but Jane was too accomplished a glamourist to deny that illusions could provoke emotions. That same perception allowed her to see beyond the curtain of bravery to the fear in her husband’s eyes. The truth was that Jane had no way to sway the resolution of this battle. She could only pray that they reached safety in time.

  She could only pray that Vincent was not injured.

  So Jane bent her head. She clutched the topaz cross she wore beneath her fichu and prayed. The ship swayed around them, rocking her on her knees. Overhead, footsteps sounded as men ran back and forth preparing to meet the corsairs. She listened to the footfalls, trying to ascertain each time if one of them were Vincent’s. When she finally did hear him walk overhead, she wondered how she could have thought any other set was his. She recognised the steady tread as surely as the beating of her own heart.

  When she had read of pirate attacks in “The Corsair,” by Lord Byron, they had seemed a swift and brutal thing. The author had left out the interminable period before the arrival of the corsairs, the period of tense waiting in which hope built that they might reach the coast in time.

  The frantic pace overhead gradually slowed, and the entire ship seemed to hold its breath. They all waited as the minutes turned towards an hour and then past it, and still the ship fled with the wind.

  This was not how Jane and Vincent’s life was meant to be. They were supposed to create art for princes and explore the boundaries of their craft. They had left London to escape the intrigues there and the undesirable excitement of political unrest. Attack by pirates belonged to another’s life. Oh … her mother would be in a state after this. Assuming they lived to tell her.

  Jane lifted her head and looked to the window to escape her own thoughts.

  The woman there had her hand on her younger son’s shoulder now, and had joined in staring out the window. The smudge of land was larger. How Jane wished she could see the pirate ship behind them.

  If they had outrun the ship, then someone would have come to say so. Jane closed her eyes again. If she stared at the land, she would go mad wishing that they were on it.

  A cannon boomed over the water.

  Jane flinched at the sound. One of the other women shrieked, and the younger of the two girls began sobbing in Italian. “They shall sink us, Mama!”

  A moment later, the cannon sounded again, distinctly closer, but there was no answering crash of wood splintering beneath a cannonball. Jane wet her lips. She said, “They are warning shots. They do not wish to harm the prize.”

  The girl continued to sob as though she had not heard Jane, but her mother gave Jane a grateful look and smoothed her daughter’s hair, whispering to her.

  Jane got to her feet, unable to remain still any longer. Her knees a
ched from kneeling, and she staggered as she stood. At first she thought it was due to stiffness from being still so long, and then she felt the ship shudder again.

  The corsairs were boarding. Shouts of alarm sounded, only slightly muffled by the stout wood of the cabin. Gunfire sounded in volley after volley, amid savage cries. Jane snatched up their nuncheon and emptied the contents of the oilcloth on the table. Taking the travel cups, she tied them into a corner of the cloth, thinking to use it to club someone. It weighed so little that she abandoned the effort.

  She lifted one of the chairs and tried its weight. Senseless—senseless to think that would keep them from being taken should the worst occur, and yet she could not sit by and do nothing. She had faced Napoleon’s army and would not be cowed by barbarians.

  The gunfire overhead ceased almost as abruptly as it had begun. No more than five minutes could have passed. A set of footsteps sounded in the hall—not Vincent.

  If they were safe, Vincent would have been the first down the stairs. Jane turned toward the door, the chair held ready.

  The handle of the door rattled, but the lock stood firm. The older gentleman who had spoken to her earlier finally drew the sword from his cane and came to stand in front of Jane. “Behind me, madam.”

  The door crashed open, splintering around the lock. In the opening, a corsair lowered his booted foot. Behind him stood a cluster of other pirates, equally alarming. There could be no doubt as to what he was. A long tunic striped in yellows and reds flared around the strange ballooned trousers of a Turk. His curved scimitar preceded him into the room. Jane had seen drawings in Punch, but had always thought they were wild exaggerations for the purposes of attracting readers.

  Faced with this new reality, she acted on instinct and tried to weave a Sphère Obscurcie to hide behind. For a moment, she thought that it would work with the ship standing still in the water, but the waves tossed them, and she lost her grip. The glamour evaporated into an oiled rainbow.

  The corsair shouted at her and sprang forward. With a sweep of his hand, Jane’s chair flew to the side. Before she could draw breath, he had her arm twisted behind her and the scimitar pressed against her neck. Jane shivered. His breath stank of beer and was the least noisome part of his person.