Harbinger: Fate's Forsaken: Book One (34 page)

Her eyes were
shining, her face flushed pink — and Kael knew it had nothing to do with
the grog, because he’d watched her hurl it overboard the second Lysander’s back
was turned.

“What d’you
think, dog?” he asked again. “Think I got a chance?” Before Kael could answer,
he threw back the rest of his drink and dragged a sleeve across his mouth.
“You’re right — of course I got a chance. I’m a captain!” He saluted and
stumbled purposefully towards Aerilyn, who was now spinning in an intricate
pattern with Kyleigh.

Their antics
earned them a fresh round of loud whistles and foot-stomping — so loud
that Kael didn’t hear Morris approach until he’d already run him over.

“I haven’t
danced like that since before I got fat,” he said, slapping an arm to his ample
belly. “Makes for a whole new jig, it does, having something so burdensome
hanging off my chest. You ought to get in there and show them a thing or two.”

Kael wanted to
say that he thought dancing was for moonstruck idiots, but he held his tongue.
“I think my legs have earned a rest.”

Morris smiled
and thumped him hard on the back. “They sure have, lad. I’ve not seen sparring
like that in many tide turns.”

Kael wanted to
thank him for teaching him how to fight, for pushing him to the brink of death
everyday, but he never got the chance. No sooner did Morris speak than the sky
opened up and torrents of cold rain fell down upon them. Icy water soaked
through their clothes and doused the lanterns — and sent the pirates
rushing for their hammocks.

“All hands below
deck!” Thelred said as he sprinted towards the captain’s cabin. “Hands below
deck — snuff your lanterns and get some shuteye, dogs!”

Kael would have
loved nothing better than to snuff his lantern and go to sleep, but losing to
Aerilyn meant that he had a week’s worth of galley-scrubbing — starting
immediately.

He jogged down
the stairs to the kitchen, wringing water out of his shirt as he went, and
nearly lost his footing when he saw the horrible task before him.

Every surface
of the closet-sized galley was piled high in woefully grimy pots — some
of which looked as if they hadn’t been clean since the day they came out of the
fire. They were stacked in teetering piles, held together by the greasy
remnants of last week’s dinner. Some of the stacks nearly reached the ceiling.

He would have
thrown the whole lot out to sea if he didn’t believe Lysander could come up
with an even worse punishment for wasting dishes. So he rolled up his sleeves
and went to work.

He was wrestling
with a particularly stubborn patch of greasy black goo when he suddenly felt as
if he wasn’t alone. She hadn’t made a sound, but he knew she was behind him.
“Hello, Kyleigh. Have you come to scold me for letting my guard down?”

She leaned
against the counter, an arm’s reach from him. Her hair was dripping wet and
little beads of water still clung to the skin of her face and neck. The smell
of rain mixed with lavender was a nice reprieve from the stink of days-old
food. “I haven’t come to scold you, I’ve come to help you,” she said, setting a
tankard down by his elbow.

He saw the pale
green foam before he smelled the sharp tang of pirate grog. “Thanks, but I
don’t think I could hold down another one.”

She shook her
head and took the filthy washrag out of his hand, her fingers brushing against
his. She dipped the cloth into the tankard and wringed it out over the goo.
Foam bubbled up and the greasy black chunks went sliding down — melted
away by the sizzling grog.

“Well that’s …
useful,” he said, though he was more than a little disturbed. “What’s in that
stuff?”

She gave him an
amused smile. “Do you really want to know?”

No, he didn’t.
But if grog could peel off an ancient layer of grease, he could imagine what it
might do to his stomach. He thanked her for the help and swore off drinking in
the same breath.

She laughed and
turned to leave. “That was kind of you to let Aerilyn win, by the way.”

The tone of her
voice startled him into looking up. The expression she wore confused him: she
wasn’t laughing, she wasn’t angry or annoyed. He couldn’t put his finger on why
her mouth was set that certain way, or why her brows were bent in those
particular arcs. He
did
notice the
way she leaned against the door, and how having one arm propped over her head
like that pulled against the soft material of her pirate’s shirt, revealing a
good deal of her figure.

“I didn’t let
her win,” he said gruffly, because he thought being gruff might somehow hide
the burn in his face. “I got distracted, and she beat me. That’s all there is
to it.”

Her look didn’t
falter. “Only you know what you did or didn’t do. But do you want to know what
I think?”

He could only
nod.

“I think, in a
nobler realm, you would have made a terrific knight.”

For a long
moment, he couldn’t respond. He scrubbed absently, trying to make sense of the
sudden kindness in her words, trying to think of something to say in return,
but he couldn’t think of anything. She wasn’t like Aerilyn — who flung
out compliments like crumbs to the birds. So if she ever said anything at all,
he knew it was because she meant it.

But when he
finally thought to look up, the doorway was empty. Kyleigh was already gone.

Miles away from
where
Anchorgloam
sailed, Duke
Reginald was just finishing his evening swim. His arms glided through the water
with ease. He came up for a quick breath, and the salty ocean ran off his
short, wavy hair. When his lungs were full, he thrust his head back under.
Above the waves, he could hear the sea beating against the jagged rocks behind
him. But the world below was quiet.

He rather liked
the solitude. And after having to deal with his squabbling managers all day
long, he felt that he’d earned it. He took a few more strokes and, as he turned
his head for a breath, he heard someone call his name.

“ — inald!
There’s a — says he wants — ”

Oh, what now? He
stopped and flipped over on his back, letting the sea hold him in its bobbing
embrace. A steward waved from the rocky shore. “What is it?” Reginald shouted.

“Manager to see
you, Sir Duke!”

It was just like
Chaucer to show up early and wreck his swim. “Let him know I’m on my way,” he
said, rather snappily.

“Very good, sir.
Shall I send a boat to pick you up, sir?”

Reginald may not
have been a young man, but he was not so desperate that he needed a boat to
drag him in. “No, that won’t be necessary. Be on about your business.”

With a nod, the
steward jogged away.

Reginald bowled
through the waves without a problem and clamored up the iron ladder nailed into
the stone beneath his castle. The fortress was built on an island of rocks,
nothing but ocean surrounded it. Well, there was that bothersome bridge
connecting the island to the shores of the Kingdom. But if it weren’t for this
ruler business, he’d have burned it up a long time ago.

Though the sun
was setting, the air hadn’t lost a bit of its stickiness. The water clinging to
Reginald’s skin cooled him for a few steps, but by the time he reached the wall
where he’d tossed his shirt, the heat was back. Sweat beaded up on his face and
trickled down his neck. He decided he’d rather not add a layer to his
discomfort. So he ducked through the back gate of his castle wearing nothing but
a pair of trousers rolled to the knee.

Not
surprisingly, he caught the glances of several maids as he strode through the
corridors. It was no secret that they hated him. That they loathed how he ruled
… and yet, they couldn’t help but steal a look when he passed. To have that
sort of power, the sort that forced admiration even in the midst of hate
— well, Reginald couldn’t have asked for better.

One maid stared
too long, and he caught her with a grin. Red sprouted to her cheeks as she
hurried away. “Run, little mouse,” he said, and he could tell by the way her
shoulders stiffened that she’d heard him.

He kept his
office perched on the third floor. Most rulers had their chambers at the
highest level, but for Reginald it wasn’t about power or prestige: it was
entirely about the view.

The captain of
the guards droned on about how unsafe it was, but Reginald didn’t care. The
moment he was made Duke, he ordered that a large window be cut out of his
westernmost wall. Now the first thing he saw when he entered was the sea,
glittering in her shades of emotion. Tonight she was at peace. She welcomed the
falling sun in her embrace and together they ignited the waves with the fiery
passion of their love.

It would have
been a magnificent scene, had he been able to see it properly. But
unfortunately the broad shoulders of the man standing in front of the window
all but eclipsed it, leaving him with only a sliver to look out of. When he
closed the door, the man turned away, fixing him with solemn eyes.

Reginald sighed
inwardly. Everything was always a matter of life or death with Chaucer. He
couldn’t even relax enough to let his beard grow out.

“So good of you
to come. I trust your journey went well?” Reginald said as he took a seat
behind his desk. It was made of dark oak, carved in one piece from a single
tree — a gift from Countess D’Mere.

“Quite,” Chaucer
replied.

“Capital.”
Reginald made a show of rearranging some parchment on his desk while Chaucer
waited in silence. When he looked up, he was shocked to find that they weren’t
alone.

How had he not
seen him before? The man lurking next to the bookshelves was short and
unremarkable to be sure, but still — he didn’t see how he could’ve
possibly missed a whole other body in the room.

“And who is
this?” Reginald waved to the short man, who was staring vacantly at one of the
many trinkets lined up along the shelves.

“My servant,”
Chaucer replied. “Shall I ask him to leave?”

Reginald
normally wouldn’t have allowed another person to sit in on their meeting. But
the short fellow wore an expression of such incurable boredom that he doubted
if he’d even bother listening in. “He can stay. Just make sure he doesn’t touch
anything.”

“Very good,”
Chaucer said. He was waiting patiently, standing with his legs stuck together
and his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He probably would have sat down,
had there been another chair in the room. But Reginald preferred his managers
never to get the idea that they were equal.

When he decided
he’d kept Chaucer waiting long enough, he leaned back in his chair and propped
his hands on his bare stomach. “The figures look good this season. Well done.”

Chaucer inclined
his head. “Much appreciated, Sir Duke.”

“Yes … there
are, however, a few disturbing reports about pirates.” Reginald held up a
particularly angry letter. “Baron Sahar seems to think that you haven’t been
doing everything in your power to protect his goods. Just last week, another of
his vessels went missing — disappeared shortly after it checked out of
Harborville. He claims that he’s losing money by the ton and sailors by the
dozen. What have you to say to that?”

A muscle
twitched at Chaucer’s jaw line, but his expression didn’t change. “Nothing, Sir
Duke.”

Though Reginald
wanted very badly to throw a book at his head, he somehow managed to keep his
voice even. “I put the desert in your charge because all the others failed so
miserably. For years, there were only a few sightings here and there of
pirates, but now,” he smoothed the letter carefully on his desk top, “the ocean
seems to be crawling with sea thieves. Can you think of any reason that might
be?”

Chaucer might as
well have been a stone gargoyle, for all he revealed. “There have been reports,
Sir Duke, of an unfair advantage,” he said. “The pirates’ timing is too perfect
— the conditions of the sea always seem to favor them. Time after time,
it’s the same.”

Yes, Reginald
knew all the stories. He knew the tales drunken sailors spewed around their
fires when the chill of night settled in their bones. He knew the name they
spoke with hushed voices and worried eyes. He also knew that men of the seas
were born with lies upon their lips.

“You believe the
Witch of Wendelgrimm is helping the pirates?” He let a large dose of disdain
slide into his voice. “One of my managers — one of my
best
managers — is being scared
off by a bedtime story?”

Chaucer’s mouth
bent in a smirk. “Forgive me, but I believe you know the Witch exists.”

“Of course she
exists. But do you know why she’s called the Witch of Wendelgrimm? Because she
never actually
leaves
Wendelgrimm.
The Witch has claimed her prize, and she isn’t at all interested in treasure
ships. Try to use that head of yours. I know it must be difficult to be so
irreversibly stupid, but do try.”

Chaucer took his
beating without a word. When Reginald was finished, he bent his head. “I yield
to your knowledge, Sir Duke.”

Reginald gripped
the corner of his desk to keep the anger from his face. Try as he might,
Chaucer just didn’t intimidate. Someone could run him through, and he probably
wouldn’t even grimace. He’d likely die with the same serious expression he wore
now.

“I think I’ve
been more than understanding of your sailors’ fears,” Reginald said evenly. “I
added a day to the route so the ships could avoid sailing too close to
Wendelgrimm, didn’t I?”

“You were very
gracious, Sir Duke.”

“Right I was.
Now — I want this problem solved. I won’t have anymore notes like this,”
he waved the letter in Chaucer’s face, “coming across my desk. Tell the ships to
travel in fleets, if you have to. At least if one gets attacked, the others can
sail free. It’s better than having them picked off one at a time. Blast it,
Chaucer! This is why I hired you — to think
for
me! Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to be surrounded
by incompetence?”