“You’d be in the way,” the Knife said. “Also, Captain, I have taken away your trousers.”
“Get Roxanne down here, to report to me.”
“My love is busy,” the Knife said, applying a linen bandage. She said, “If he’d got the inside of your thigh instead of nicking the outside, you’d be dead by now.” She picked up another cloth, soaked it in distilled alcohol and slapped it against the cut on Imena’s upper arm.
Imena hissed. The door to her cabin swung open, and Maxime slipped in, carrying a cup. Before she could speak, he said, “We’ve gained a ship length. They spent time putting out the fires before they got under way.”
“Who shot the arrows?” Imena demanded.
“Norris,” he said.
Imena grinned. “You can tell her she’s earned a bonus. Twenty gold pieces.”
Maxime sat on the trunk next to her, nudging her hip aside with his. He held the cup for her and she sipped: ginger syrup, to help settle her stomach. Once she’d swallowed, he said, “Marry me. You’ve just demonstrated why you’d make a most excellent duchess.”
Imena turned to look at him, too quickly, and had to swallow back nausea from the movement. “Because I can knee a pirate in the bollocks? I don’t have to marry you, you’ve already given me your virtue,” she said, swallowing inappropriate and slightly hysterical laughter.
Maxime only looked at her. She was surprised when he kissed her temple, gently. He said, “You’ve a nasty knot on the back of your head.”
The Knife remarked, “There’s a reason most people leave the hair on their heads where it belongs.”
Imena said, “Are you finished with me?”
“No,” the Knife said. “How’s the nausea?”
“If you forbore from mentioning it, it would go away,” she retorted. “I can puke just as well on deck as here.”
Maxime leaned toward the Knife and said, “She’s right, you know. I could keep an eye on her for you.”
The Knife eyed him sourly. “Your charm will not work on me,” she said, “but your logic will. Let me bind up your cuts and you can carry her up.” She turned to Imena. “You’re to stay in the pilothouse, in a chair.”
Maxime smiled. “Thank you, Tessa.” The Knife smiled back, without her usual sarcasm.
Imena sighed. “Fix him so I can go.”
She didn’t admit that it was pleasant to be held close to Maxime’s chest, her face against his throat, as he carried her up the narrow stairs into the pilothouse. It would have been easy to close her eyes and drift off to sleep, had her anxiety for her ship and crew not pulsed in her chest.
The pilothouse was enclosed on three sides; the fourth side was actually a bamboo screen that could be lashed out of the way. Two chairs, both bolted to the deck, were provided for long watches. Maxime placed Imena in one of these and stood beside her. She nodded to the helmsman, Bonnevie, and breathed deeply of the clean sea breeze. She felt herself calming when she saw Roxanne approaching to report.
Aside from rope burns on her arms, Roxanne appeared unhurt. She said, “We’ve gained two ship lengths, Captain. The black ship is another length behind—they’re sloppier sailors than the Riptide crew.”
Imena asked, “Casualties?”
“Hiyu was killed in the first rush, and Big Wim bled out before anyone could reach him. Nevens has a gut wound, but the Knife thinks she might pull through. She’s not sure about Yeadon or Donkey, and Philippe might lose an eye. Kuan’s head wound wasn’t as bad as it looked, but he’ll be out of the rigging for a week at least.”
“Keep me informed. Burials as soon as we’re clear of pursuit. Send Chetri to me when he has a moment.”
“Aye, Captain.”
When Roxanne had gone, Imena sagged against the chair back, giving herself a few moments to mourn her lost crew. Maxime’s warm hand rested atop her head for a moment, almost easing her headache, then slid down to squeeze her shoulder in a gentle rhythm. He didn’t speak.
When she opened her eyes, Chetri was standing before her, and Maxime crouched unobtrusively to the side, his back against the pilothouse’s bulkhead. She’d slept without realizing it. At least her head felt better. “Report,” she said.
“Three ship lengths’ lead,” he said with satisfaction.
“We can’t quite smell them anymore.”
“Good work,” Imena said. “Keep it up.” She rubbed her gritty eyes, then looked at Chetri again. “What else? Spill it.”
“Captain. I took hostages.”
“Pirates? On my ship? What were you thinking?”
“Prisoners,” Chetri said. “The concubine, Annja—she wanted to go with us.”
“After she betrayed Maxime to her captain,” Imena said, throttling back rage.
“She had no choice,” Chetri said. “The other woman, Suzela, was hostage for her good behavior, and Annja for Suzela’s. They fought their way to me, Imena. Annja killed one of the pirates with a hairpin to the throat.”
Imena blinked. “That was…ingenious.”
“They’re below. Norris took them in charge. They said they could help the Knife.”
“They don’t sound as if they’re hostages to me,” Imena said.
Chetri looked abashed. “They might as well make themselves useful.”
“I will speak to them, and let them know of the penalties should they betray our trust in them. And it will be our trust. You will not tell them I had nothing to do with your decision and let them think to exploit the knowledge.” She fixed him with her most commanding look.
“Chetri, I am surprised and displeased that you did this without my permission.”
Silently, he bowed to her in acknowledgment, holding the bow for long moments before he straightened. “I will accept whatever discipline you see fit to administer, Captain.”
There would have to be discipline of some kind, to uphold the authority she held over the crew. Often, discipline was the only thing standing between life and death for them. She said, “When next we’re in dry dock, you will take my shifts and I will take your shore leave.”
“Aye, Captain.” Chetri bowed again.
“You’re not wounded?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’ll take good care of Seaflower for you, Captain, if you’d like to sleep for a while.”
Maxime said, “I can help you below.”
“Not yet,” Imena said. “Summon the hostages. I need to speak with them.”
Nabhi and Malim brought the women on deck; they were not bound, but Imena noted with approval that both her sailors carried rope at their belts, just in case. Annja, the pirate’s concubine, stood just in front of the other woman, Suzela. Annja still wore the snug dress she’d had on earlier, but now the skirt was ripped up one leg and the bodice was spattered with a great quantity of drying blood. Suzela wore a shapeless, knee-length tunic that did little to disguise abundant curves; her long, glossy curls swung forward to hide her face, but the brown skin of her arms and legs was smooth and clear.
Imena did not rise from her chair, but waited until both women bowed. She said, “I am assigning your welfare to Chetri, but that’s at my discretion.” Neither of them spoke. Approving, Imena said, “I won’t have you killed and tossed overboard. I’m allowing you to stay for now, but I expect you to earn your keep. Is that clear?”
Both women bowed.
“Good,” Imena said. “You are dismissed.”
Three days passed. The pirate ships remained within view, never more than six lengths behind.
Imena first felt the storm as a throbbing in her temples while she was below, holding Yeadon’s gnarled hand as he drew his last breaths. When his breathing stopped, and she’d laid his payoff coins on his chest, she hurried back on deck. She could already smell the clean rush of ozone in the rapidly increasing wind, and feel the length of the heavy swell as the deck rose and fell. Clouds the purplish-black of a bruise gathered solid on the horizon.
Chetri appeared at her side before she could cal
l for him. The long days and nights of pursuit were wearing on him; his eyes were reddened from fatigue and salt, and his frowsy hair escaped from its braid. The lines around his mouth were more marked than usual. She said, “Tie everything down, even if we lose a little of our lead. Lifelines, fore and aft, and another amidships. Bare minimum of storm canvas before the brunt of it hits.” She named the sails she wanted; dangerous, but not quite so dangerous as to be foolhardy. “And extra crew to the pumps.”
The light was changing already, going brassy, and thunder growled as if invisible clubs battered the sky.
“It’s a bad blow,” Chetri agreed. “Might give us an edge, though. It’ll be harder for them to stay on us when the wind gets bad.”
Imena said, “Harder if we’re not trying to hold a course.” She met his eyes. “Once we’re out of it, I can find our way to a safe port.” She was a trained starmaster. She ought to be able to get some advantage from it.
Chetri looked at her in silence for a moment, then nodded. “Aye, Captain.”
The storm hit with a scream of wind and a wall of water. The few sails they couldn’t haul down in time were ripped to shreds in minutes, ropes thrashing wildly, dangerously, if no one could reach to slash them loose. Even Seaflower’s best topmen had to rope themselves around the waist or risk being blown to the deck from a ship length’s height and smashed to jelly. Imena crammed an oilcloth hat on her head and lashed herself to the mainmast until the process was complete, signaling the crew with blasts from a horn because the gale and the horrifying creak of timber whipped voices to nothing while the air churned white with rain and sleet. Soon, even hearing the horn became impossible; water flew over the rails and crashed to the decks, swimming around Imena’s calves and seeping through any gap to the decks below.
She breathed a sigh of relief when the last of the hands scrambled free of the rigging. Lightning snapped, momentarily flashing the ship in negative, as if her eyes could no longer tell light from dark.
They could die at any moment, but there was a mad glory in the sting of rain on her face and the buffets of wind that nearly carried her into the air. Playful baby lightning crawled and danced through the rigging before harmlessly crackling into the sea; for a moment the beauty of it transfixed her.
Then a waterspout roared up like a legendary beast of the deep, taller than the mainmast, sucking the breath from her. She gasped and inhaled a fine salty mist instead of air; then it plunged with a perilous crash, flinging Imena nearly to the railing. For long moments the deck was so awash that the ship and the sea seemed the same; struggling fish slammed into her legs before she dragged herself upright with a lifeline, water pouring from her clothing. She’d lost her hat and the rain beat painfully on her head. Well, she thought. Their pursuers could never have predicted this. If she was lucky, perhaps the pirates would perish in the storm, or their ships be so damaged they could pursue no one.
She found Chetri and issued more orders, signing with her arms as well as shouting, in the hope nothing would be lost in the bellowing of the wind and thunder and the curtain of downpour. Tiny Gnalam came on deck and lashed herself to the mainmast, to be ready for emergency carpentry repairs; she and Seretse, the chief carpenter, would alternate shifts. Imena waved to her and headed for the pilothouse as lightning jagged across the sky.
The steersman Bonnevie had wedged his feet beneath iron braces and knotted himself in place with two lines, one to hold him around the waist and the other to ensure at least one of his hands remained on the wheel. Imena reeled into the partial shelter the pilothouse offered and took a moment to gasp in a breath that wasn’t filled with water. She shouted, “Untie your hand! I don’t want you to lose it!”
As she spoke, a wave slammed the tiller and the wheel spun to the side. With a rueful grimace, Bonnevie loosed his hand and let the wheel go, catching it again as a wave slammed into the ship’s side. “Should I tie up the wheel?” he asked.
She peered at the wheel ropes. Regular maintenance ensured they weren’t likely to break. “Do it, and take a rest below,” Imena said. “You’ll need it.”
After Bonnevie vanished down the ladder, a larger figure emerged from the hatch. Maxime held out a mug to her, its top sealed with a wooden cover. “It’s hot,” he said, his low voice easily cutting through the surrounding noise.
Imena’s oiled coat had soaked through; she took the mug gratefully, warming her icy hands on its sides. “Thank you. Now get below!”
“The Knife sent me to keep an eye on you.” Bracing one hand on the bulkhead, he eased closer to her and said, “Drink the tea.”
Imena thumbed aside the little hatch covering the mug’s opening and tried a sip. The mint tea wasn’t scalding, but the liquid heat rushed through her chilled body as if it were on fire. She drained the rest of the mug and gave it back to Maxime. “Below,” she ordered. “I won’t have you blown overboard.”
Outside the pilothouse, the creaking grew worse; she winced and turned, trying to identify the source of the sound. Wood squealed, ripped, snapped, and the searing whine of wind in the rigging abruptly altered. The sound was familiar, a lost topmast. “Putrid melting fish guts,” she swore, and dived back into the rain.
In the first onslaught of the gale, Maxime interviewed the two hostages from the pirate ship, Annja and Suzela, while pretending to allow them to interview him about conditions on Seaflower. They were most particularly concerned with those conditions relating to abuse of captives and concubines. Annja didn’t quite believe there were no concubines aboard, and clearly expected to become Chetri’s, once Maxime explained that Captain Leung preferred men. Suzela said nothing at all, but her eyes spoke volumes, most of them distrustful. She sat behind Annja, her legs curled beneath her and her arms trapping the ship’s cat in her lap.
Maxime didn’t push them too far. Any decisions regarding the women were Imena’s to make. Besides that, remaining unmolested for a few days would no doubt reassure the two hostages more than anything he could say. He introduced them to Norris and to Deena, who would bring their food and water, and returned to Imena’s cabin.
The storm lasted five days before it passed, or Seaflower passed it. During the endless hours of being tossed like dice in a cup, the pirate ships fell out of sight, whether sunk or merely evaded, none could tell.
Imena ordered the lifelines taken down in the wee hours of the sixth morning. It was evening before the crew ceased the chanting that had accompanied their hours of work pumping out the hold. Maxime, who’d spelled a few of the sailors when needed, returned to Imena’s cabin and rubbed his face wearily. He stripped off one shirt, sponged himself off and drew on another that wasn’t soaked and encrusted with salt. He wanted a real wash, but he’d had more than enough of being doused in cold water, and it would be some time before the newly rekindled kitchen stoves could produce enough that had been warmed. He’d requested that the first available, after any needed by the Knife and her patients, be reserved for Imena.
She hadn’t been to sleep in at least two days, he knew, unless she’d dozed while lashed upright on deck or, like some of the crew, slept in snatched seconds before reeling back to work again. He’d spent most of his free time in her cabin, to make sure he would see her if she ventured there, though she hadn’t been below at all. Every few hours during that time, he’d gone on deck, into the maelstrom of bitter winds, freezing rain and hail to bring her tea or cold bread and salted meat, sometimes alternating with Norris, who usually had more subtlety in encouraging her to eat it.
Strange how his concerns had shrunk. He’d wanted to survive the storm, so long as Imena survived it with him. To survive, he’d wanted her to drink tea warmed painstakingly over a sealed spirit lamp, and eat a few bites, and spend a few moments out of the wind. He’d wanted to be with her, even if only for a few moments at a time.
The door slammed open and Imena staggered in. Her sopping-wet clothes were rimed with white salt and smeared with black tar. Though her wounds from the fight with t
he pirates were healing, her cheek bore a new bruise, her lips were chapped and split and her eyes were reddened like a lifelong smoke addict’s.
“You look gorgeous,” Maxime said, and meant every word.
“Don’t stand in front of my bed,” Imena said, taking a shaky step forward.
Maxime caught her arm and slung it around his waist. “I’ll help you in,” he said.
“Norris?”
“Busy.” Maxime eased her atop her coverlet, then grabbed her bare feet and swung them up, as well. “Go to sleep, I’ll take your clothes off.”
“Promise or threat?” she asked with a weary grin. Her eyes closed. When he cut loose the wet knot at her trousers’ waist, she was already limp, deeply asleep.
At least, he thought, she wouldn’t notice he was washing her with cold water. She stirred only briefly when he rinsed salt from the raw scrapes on her hands and anointed them with the green salve he’d been given. His bandages, he decided, were good enough to please the Knife. When he sponged her genitals, she murmured, then subsided back to sleep.
He resisted the urge to kiss her, instead stripping off his clothing and climbing into the bed with her. The bunk wasn’t meant for two adults, especially when one was as large as Maxime, so he had to curl closely around her. He laid his palm on her belly and tugged her into the curve of his body. It was the first time, he reflected, that they’d shared a bed.
This, he thought, was what it meant to be in love.
If only she felt the same. At least she didn’t snore.
He laid his cheek against the velvety stubble on her head and breathed in her scent. His muscles felt limp as soaked sails. The lamp, though dimmed, was too bright. He closed his eyes.
Someone shook his shoulder vigorously. Maxime blinked up at Imena. “You’re asleep in my bed,” she said.
“How long?” he mumbled.
“Four hours,” she said. “I only let myself sleep the length of a watch. You’ll be glad to know the ship isn’t going to sink.”
“Was I supposed to be worried about that?” he asked.
The Duke & the Pirate Queen Page 12
