“Not armed, are you?” the man said, glancing at the letter and handing it back to Huffington.
“Yes,” he admitted. His life would be forfeit without time for explanation if they caught him with a weapon in the presence of the emperor.
“Place your weapons there, please, sir,” the guard said, nodding to a silver tray on an ornate stand beside the door. Huffington noticed the subtle shifting of position as the other three guards gripped their halberds and rose onto the balls of their feet, ready to strike should Huffington show any intention to disobey the order.
“Very well.” Huffington disarmed himself, an unusually long process for a diplomatic secretary. Of course, he had cultivated his benign appearance, and to good effect. The guards’ eyes grew wide as Huffington filled the tray with four daggers, a belt-buckle knife, one slim dart from a sheath sewn into the back of his waistcoat, and the garrote secreted under his collar.
“Is that all?” the guard asked, glaring at the tangled pile of lethal instruments.
“Yes, unless you want to pull my teeth as well,” he said, scowling back.
“On your own pain if it’s not, sir.” The guard opened the door and rapped the haft of his weapon on the floor. “Mister Huffington, secretary to Count Norris, bearing dispatches from Admiral Joslan and Master of Security Upton.”
Inside the door stood two more guards, as well as a shriveled little man—obviously the emperor’s secretary—bearing a thick book. In the middle of the room stood a slightly raised dais, and upon it the emperor sat behind a paper-strewn table. A darkly-clad woman stood at his elbow, her hand resting on the hilt of a katana at her waist. Huffington knew of Lady von Camwynn, the emperor’s personal bodyguard, from Count Norris. Glancing at her sword, he remembered the rumors he’d heard—enchanted, haunted, cursed, or all three—and shivered. Huffington was startled to recognize the one other man in the room: Tipos, the seamage’s dockmaster. So
he
was the messenger.
“Follow me,” the secretary said unnecessarily, leading him to the table.
Huffington bowed deeply, eyes fixed on the floor, and began to recite his carefully rehearsed words. “Your Majesty, I—” But he heard the whisper of Lady von Camwynn’s katana leaving its scabbard and the rest fled his mind. The black blade flashed before his eyes and hovered an inch below his chin. The emperor’s bodyguard had moved forward, swift and utterly silent, ready to remove his head with a twist of her wrist.
“Caution, Majesty,” she warned coldly. “This man’s clothing has the marks of many weapons. Weapons favored by assassins. Stand, you.”
Huffington slowly straightened. The dark blade in her hand, gleaming in the light from the windows, hovered much too close for his comfort.
“We are familiar with Mister Huffington’s reputation, Lady von Camwynn,” the emperor said, waving a weary hand, “and We will trust his word that he bears Us no ill.”
“If it please Your Majesty, I vow that I bear no ill will toward you, and that I am unarmed,” Huffington said, glancing to the bodyguard. “I will submit to any search you wish, of course.”
“The satchel, if you please.” Her tone brooked no argument.
Huffington lifted the strap over his head, worked the clasp and opened the flap for her. To his surprise, she did not look inside, but thrust the tip of her sword into the paper-filled bag, then withdrew it, her eyes never leaving his. She took a step back and sheathed her weapon, backing up to resume her position at the emperor’s elbow, her hand still on the disturbing weapon’s hilt. The emperor’s secretary appeared at his side, took the satchel from his hands, laid it on the table and began to remove the sealed dispatches.
“So, Mister Huffington,” said the emperor, “you bear news from Admiral Joslan. Please tell Us that he has treated with the seamage and is bringing her here.”
“I regret that I cannot do so, Your Majesty. At the time of my departure, Admiral Joslan was still in Rockport, deciding how to respond to the loss of His Majesty’s ships,
Fire Drake
and
Clairissa
.” He glanced toward Tipos. “News that, I see, you have already received.”
“Yes, We received a report, but We would welcome a fresh account of the loss of Our flagship and the
Fire Drake
.” The sovereign’s eyes narrowed. “You were present at the battle?”
“I was, your Majesty. I was aboard the
Lady Gwen
. It is all in the reports from—”
“We will read the dispatches presently, but first We would like to hear your personal observations of the battle.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” He gave as accurate and unbiased an account of that dreadful day as he could manage. There was a long silence after he had finished. The emperor stared down at the table as if he were half asleep. Huffington cast a sidelong glance at Tipos, and detected a faint shake of the man’s head. Apparently, the emperor was not taking the news well. Finally, the sovereign replied.
“We must read the dispatches and assess this situation.” His eyes rose from the table and flicked between the two men before him. “Until We make a decision as to what actions We shall take, you will not discuss this matter, even with each other, and both of you will stay here in the palace to await Our summons.”
Huffington and Tipos both bowed and acceded, as if they had a choice.
“If I may, Your Majesty, a question.”
“Yes, Mister Huffington?”
“I would ask if it is known whether my master, Count Norris, is alive. He was on Plume Isle when…during the battle.”
“It would appear that he is alive and well, Mister Huffington, since many of these other missives are written in his own hand, and have been verified as genuine.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Await Our summons.”
“Yes, Majesty,” Huffington said with another bow, and backed carefully from the royal presence. Outside, he recovered his weapons, returning them to their allotted places as Tipos tucked a long dagger from another silver tray into his belt.
“Well, Mista Huffin’ton, ‘tis good to see you weren’t burnt up or drowned wit’ de rest.” Tipos held out one large hand, which Huffington took and shook solemnly. “’Tis very good, indeed.”
It struck Huffington as odd to be shaking hands with this man, here of all places. He remembered well their first meeting on the pier at Plume Isle. He had thought the native simple and violent, standing in naught but a loincloth, spear at the ready. Now he wondered if there might be as many sides to Tipos as there were to himself.
“It is good to see you, too, Tipos. I trust you left your mistress in good health.”
The man’s face fell, the open smile transforming instantly into a closed, blank mien. “Not ta be discussin’ what we was told not to, Mista’ Huffin’ton, but no, I did no such t’ing. I’m sure da emperor will be fillin’ you in on all dis later, so suffice ta say dat dere’s more goin’ on here dan what da two of us know.”
Huffington sighed. “I had a feeling that things might become complicated. But as we are both at the disposal of higher powers in this matter, I see no reason why there can’t be some agreement between us. Let’s find someplace were we can take our ease, and we can discuss…other matters.”
“Dat would suit me right nice, Mista Huffin’ton,” Tipos agreed, flashing his pearly grin once again. “Right nice, indeed.”
≈
Camilla existed in her own private hell…a hell of her own making.
Parek’s hand traced lazy circles down her torso, his fingers rough on the bruises and scrapes from his sadistic play. She had thought that nothing could be worse than submitting to Bloodwind’s touch, but at least the pirate lord’s caresses had been genuine: he had loved her unto his death. There was no semblance of love in Parek’s touch, no warmth, no caring; there was only lust, hunger…pain.
Maybe I’m paying for being happy,
she thought, suppressing the fleeting memory of Emil’s sweet face on a pillow beside her.
The physical pain, she knew, would heal. The dull ache in her soul, radiating out through her flesh; that would never go away. She tried to suppress a shudder, but he felt it and misunderstood it, and his mocking caress became more direct, more urgent.
Not again
, she screamed silently.
Not again, please, not yet…
As if from another’s mouth, she heard her own voice: calm, quiet, sensual even. “How long do you plan to stay here?” she asked. Anything to forestall his lust, maybe for an hour, maybe a minute.
“Oh, I don’t know, lass.” Parek slid his fingers down her body, down. He had learned what made her shudder, what made her moan and cry out, and what made her whimper. He had learned
her
. “We should probably leave tomorrow morning, since you say there’s no way to tell when the sea witch will get back.” His rough beard scraped her, and his teeth nipped at a sensitive spot…more pain.
She gasped despite herself, arching her neck, her hand making a fist in his hair. Disgust roiled through her like smoke from a smoldering fire: disgust with Parek, with his touch, and with herself. The false passion came too easily; her former life of silent suffering had found her, and she had slipped into it like one of her dresses. The persona fit like it was made for her…or, maybe, she was made for it.
“And you’ll take me with you?” she asked. An errant gust billowed the gauzy drapes, and the cool morning air played on her sweat-damp skin, raising gooseflesh, lighting her abrasions like dry tinder under a match.
“Oh, I’m taking you with me, lass,” he said, and teased her with tongue and teeth until she flinched and twisted. Her grip in his hair became more desperate, until he hissed. He grinned at her. “I’m taking you, all right. I’m going to take you places you’ve never even thought of.”
He grasped her raw wrists and pinned them to the bed. The pain of his grip surged through her, like she had fallen into a pool of scalding water. It closed over her head, muffling her other senses. Faintly, she heard her voice crying out, tasted the salt of her own blood, smelled the thick scent of his stale sweat mingling with her own, and felt him against her, piercing her like a dagger.
Like the dagger she had put into Bloodwind’s heart.
≈
“Sun come, we go,” Sam said, pointing to
Manta
. “Make ready. Food, water.”
“Aye, Capt’n! Ready! Go with sun.” Uag grinned and trotted off, shouting orders to the crew—the five other cannibals who had been sailing
Manta
the longest, and whose loyalty and seamanship Sam trusted most. The rest of the cannibals would be taking
First Venture
and the prisoners back to their own island. Sam chuckled when she considered them trying to sail the galleon themselves; she would help them get out of the harbor, but after that the ship was theirs for good or ill. Parek would take
Cutthroat
, with all the pirates and the treasure, back to Middle Cay, where she’d meet up with them after she had completed her own task.
Sam hauled the heavy box of charts and fine navigational instruments aboard
Manta
; she had pillaged them from the Flaxal witch’s own chambers. She stowed them carefully, then went looking for the other supplies she would need to traverse the Sea of Lost Ships.
“Some timber to make sweeps, if there’s any that isn’t burnt,” she murmured, squinting at the pile of charred wood that had been the lofting shed. “And some tools.”
She found a rack of spars that hadn’t burnt, and another rack of planks that had been draped with canvas to keep the rain off. She conscripted a few cannibals to haul the wood to
Manta
and lash it down on deck. Most of the tools had burned in the shed, but she found one blood-caked adze that was undamaged. For the rest, she confiscated heavy cutlery from the kitchens, cleavers and heavy butcher knives. They would work for shaping the planks into rough sweeps. If, as Parek had said, there was no wind in this gyre of drifting weed, she would need some way to propel
Manta
.
As for her crew, she wouldn’t tell them where they were going until they were in the thick of it. If they didn’t like it, they could swim home. Her only goal was to rescue Edan from the sea witch. Once they were together, and she had a pyromage under her control, everything else would come easy.
≈
“We’re comin’ up on her again, Captain,” Horace said, nodding forward. The transom of
Peggy’s Dream
was closer than it had been only a few minutes before. “Must be the firebug on duty again.”
“Shorten sail, and try to keep in her wake,” Feldrin ordered, lifting his viewing glass to scan the deck of the larger schooner. “Aye, I see the little rat’s red mop on the foredeck. I hope Cynthia’s gettin’ some sleep this time.”
It was easy to discern when Cynthia was controlling the winds; Edan had no control over the sea and couldn’t part the endless raft of seaweed that slowed
Peggy’s Dream
, so
Orin’s Pride
, unimpeded in the larger schooner’s wake, would slowly catch up. The mer, Feldrin knew, were trying to keep the worst of the floating vegetation from catching on the
Dream’s
bobstay chains, but they tired quickly. No wonder, since they had been swimming nonstop for almost eight days, albeit slowly for the last five. Cynthia and Edan had settled into somewhat of a rhythm: she would sleep for two hours, then part the raft of weeds for two hours while Edan continued to coax the winds along. Then Edan would sleep for four hours while Cynthia did both. Only two hours of sleep in every eight was leading Cynthia to utter exhaustion. It would not be long, Feldrin knew, until that exhaustion ended in collapse.
He had tried to lure her over to the
Pride
again, planning to ensure that she at least ate and slept, but she had balked, arguing that he distracted her from her duties. He couldn’t disagree; distracting her had been his intent. Unfortunately, he had only pushed her away. The only time he saw her now was when he glimpsed her through his viewing glass.