“Fine. I’m…” The pyromage took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Good,” Cynthia said. She took Feldrin’s arm in a seemingly casual gesture, but he felt her lean against him for support, her body trembling. “Now, we’re short a bosun on
Peggy’s Dream
, so we’ll transfer you over there and you can have that cabin.”
“So you can keep an eye on me?” he asked in a mildly sarcastic tone, though Feldrin could tell that the lad was trying to curb his belligerence.
“Absolutely,” Cynthia agreed. “But as a precaution, not as a hostage. I want you to practice your skills, Edan. Hone them. Learn control. I can help you with that when it comes to manipulating the winds, and I can also douse any fires you might set accidently when you’re practicing with fire. I’ve also brought along a number of things I thought you might want.”
“So be thankful you’ll be under Cyn’s thumb and not mine,” Fedrin growled, “’cause I’d just have Horace throw you overboard if you set
my
ship aflame.”
The comment earned him a swift glare, but Feldrin didn’t care. Cynthia was playing with fire here, quite literally, and he prayed to the gods that she didn’t get herself burned.
≈
Sam lifted the viewing glass, steadied it on the topmast hounds, and watched the two schooners rounding the reef off Plume Isle. Her vantage was from high atop the mainmast of the galleon
First Venture
, the prize she and her cannibal crew had taken the night before. She had hoped to pass by Plume Isle unseen, but it seemed that fate had deemed otherwise.
At least
, she thought anxiously,
we’re downwind.
If they decided to pursue her, a downwind run was just about the only point of sail a galleon could come close to matching a schooner for speed.
Unless the sea witch uses her magic
… She clenched her lip between her filed teeth until she tasted blood, willing the two schooners to continue heading south.
Three figures came out onto the deck of
Orin’s Pride
, and she recognized them immediately. Even at this distance, the huge frame of Feldrin Brelak was unmistakable, and the woman at his side could only be the sea witch, Cynthia Flaxal. The smaller figure with a brush of fiery red hair, she knew all too well.
“Edan…”
Whenever she recalled their time together, she felt a strange warmth in the pit of her stomach, a physical memory of their lovemaking. Why that one experience had affected her more than the many times she had lain with Parek confused and troubled her. She had told herself that it had been just an act on her part, a ploy to hide her true motives. But now, feeling her stomach clench and her heart pound as she watched Edan in the distance, she had to admit that she had felt something else. Something deeper. Edan’s intensity had overwhelmed her, broken down her defenses and quelled the hatred, the ruthlessness and malice that made her a pirate. She couldn’t deny it; there was something there, something worth pursuing.
And he was a pyromage. She’d seen what he’d done to the emperor’s flagship. If she could figure out a way to control him, to wield that power for herself…together, they would be invincible.
A shout from below snapped her reverie, and she looked down. Below her lay the broad deck of the
First Venture
, still stained with blood from the ship’s former crew. Sailing in the ship’s lee was the relatively small ship she had stolen from the seamage’s very own docks, the double-hulled
Manta
, hidden from the schooners by the galleon’s bulk. But what drew her eye was the squabble that had broken out among her crew of cannibals. Though it probably wouldn’t come to blows, she would have to quell the discontent quickly and decisively if she was going to maintain control. She sighed. The crew was paying more attention to the two men involved in the disagreement than they were to sailing the ship, and it showed: the ship was sliding off course. The cannibals paddled their own small crafts to other islands on raids, and they had quickly learned how to sail the simple rig on the
Manta
, but the rig on
First Venture
was vastly more complicated. Teaching them even the basics was difficult. Add the lack of a common language, and the task was nearly impossible. But some of them caught on quickly to her pantomiming and, though the yards were not braced evenly and only two of the topsails were sheeted properly, they were nonetheless underway.
Another shout between the combatants compelled Sam to move. She tucked the viewing glass in her belt and started down the ratlines, quelling the perverse desire to leave her new friends and chase after the schooners aboard
Manta
. Catching up to them would be easy; what to do when she did was the dilemma.
“Why are you even thinking about this, Sam?” she chided herself. The schooners continued on a southerly course, and she breathed a sigh of relief. They were not after her. But even so, a wild, insane plan began to develop in her mind.
The decks of the schooners had been laden with supplies, more than someone would take on a short excursion. The seamage and her entourage were leaving Plume Isle, fleeing the imminent wrath of the emperor. She had half-expected this, and it was gratifying to see her conjecture fulfilled. Now was the time to strike. She would take her prizes back to Parek and convince him that their opportunity was at hand. They would plunder Plume Isle before the emperor’s fleet could return. When the warships arrived, there would be nothing left of the seamage’s stronghold but ashes and rubble.
≈
“The schooners are away, Miss Cammy!” Tim called as he burst into the great hall.
“Thank you, Tim.” Camilla leaned back in her chair at the head of the table and brushed an errant lock of hair out of her eyes.
Sheets of parchment, pens, ink wells and sealed packages littered the expansive wooden surface. She looked at the letter she was drafting, then to Count Emil Norris, who sat in the next chair, diligently writing his own letters. They had been working almost non-stop since yesterday on the documents that would be sent to the emperor, and they were nearly finished. Camilla was copying out letters onto fine parchment that already bore Cynthia’s signature, expressing to the emperor her deepest sympathy on the loss of his men and ships, explaining the dire misunderstandings and the mer deceptions that had led to the attacks, and reaffirming Cynthia’s allegiance. Emil was preparing his own account of the events, stressing that the seamage had been away from the island and was in no way connected with the mer attack on the
Fire Drake
, and that she had, in fact, tried to intercede, at great personal loss. Currently he was trying to address the burning of the
Clairissa
, and had chewed the end of his pen into a nub in his consternation. Camilla pitied his task; after all, his own daughter, Samantha, had provoked the attack, though she doubted that he would include that particular bit of information in his letter. As if he felt her gaze, the count looked up at her, then over at Tim.
“Is Tipos ready?” he asked the boy. He reached for a cup and frowned when he saw it was empty. The silver blackbrew pot, too, was empty.
“The
Flothrindel
is packed and ready, Father, but Tipos says he won’t wear the clothes you sent down for him.” Tim chuckled and shook his head. “He says they make him sweat.”
“Well, he can’t parade around Tsing in naught but his skin! He’s got to—”
“I’ll talk to him, Emil,” Camilla said, rising. “He can’t leave until all the letters are ready anyway.” Her muscles were tight from prolonged sitting, and she stretched her back, twisting and turning until her corset creaked. She noticed Emil’s eyes stray toward her, then dart back to his papers. Suppressing a smile, she straightened her gown. For years she had dreaded the stares of Bloodwind and his captains; more recently, Edan’s gaze had thrown her into a panic. But when Emil looked at her…
“Perhaps I
should
go to Tsing myself,” the count said. He shuffled the pile of letters into an orderly stack. “If Tipos refuses to dress like a civilized—”
“Don’t worry, Emil.” Camilla patted his arm, leaving her hand there for several heartbeats more than was necessary. “I’m sure he’ll agree to wear them once I explain how important this is. Besides, we’ve discussed this; you must stay until the next imperial expedition arrives. If you’re not here to act as mediator, Cynthia will have no one to speak on her behalf, and no one will believe her version of the events that led to the loss of the emperor’s ships, even if it is the truth.”
“You’re right,” he said. He looked up at Camilla and sighed, then rubbed his eyes and dabbed his pen in the inkwell again before leaning once more over his letter. “We’ve amassed enough evidence here to present a convincing case to His Majesty. I just hope it’s enough.”
“It’ll be enough,” she assured him, though in her deepest heart, she wondered. Her life had been so good here for the last two years. Was all that about to end? Shaking her head, she forced the thought away, suddenly realizing that Tim still stood there, watching them. “Come on, Tim. Let’s go talk to Tipos about putting on a pair of trousers.”
Emil grasped her hand and held it for a moment. “Thank you, Camilla, for giving me your trust.”
She smiled, not knowing what to say, and he released her. She felt his gaze warm her back as she took Tim’s hand and led him from the room.
Chapter 3
Dire Councils
Huffington’s feet and back ached from standing, and his stomach clenched in protest of the stale bread and thin slice of cheese that had been his dinner. He handed the tin plate to the steward who was collecting them from the officers and clerks, those not seated at the linen-covered table with Admiral Joslan.
There was no single room in the fleet large enough to comfortably accommodate all sixteen captains and their first mates, the admiral and his clerks; and the additional non-military contingent, made up of Master Upton—the emperor’s master of security—and his aides, and Huffington. Consequently, they were very uncomfortably accommodated in the great cabin of the
Indomitable
. The admiral and the captains sat at a table festooned with crystal, silver and fine bone-porcelain. The captains and flag officers had dined on fish pie, roasted capon, fresh vegetables, hot bread, and a fine white wine, but that was as far as their commander’s hospitality went. The rest of the meeting’s attendants shared the same poor fare as Huffington, and were not even accorded seats. The officers had started out at rigid attention, but over the long hours had wilted to slouch against any available surface.
Huffington was positioned next to an open port. The faint evening breeze that wafted in was refreshing, albeit sullied by the nauseating scents typical of a crowded waterfront. He still found the odor less objectionable than that of the mass of closely packed bodies that had been sweating, belching and breaking wind in the great cabin for the last six hours. And, in his opinion, the quality of the discussion was no better than that of the air.
“Surely, even a seamage can’t stand against such a force as we have here!” reiterated Captain Donnely, master of the frigate
Cape Storm
. Huffington rolled his eyes. Donnely, upholding his reputation as a bold warrior, had argued relentlessly for a swift attack on Plume Isle. Thankfully, cooler heads seemed to be prevailing.
“We must not make the same error of judgment as Commodore Twig. Our evidence is as follows.” Admiral Joslan held up a fist with one finger extended. “First, we know she has armed at least some of her fleet of schooners with incendiary weapons, since one was fired at the
Clairissa
. Second,”—another finger went up—”by her own admission, and confirmed by Count Norris, she is allied with the mer, who dragged the
Fire Drake
to the bottom of the sea and slaughtered everyone aboard. And finally,”—a third finger rose—”as evidenced by the burning of the
Clairissa,
we must surmise that she is in league with yet another mage. Such forces united would be a match for
any
fleet.”
“Do we
know
that it was a mage’s spell that destroyed the
Clairissa
?” asked Commodore Henkle, commander of the
Resolute
and Joslan’s second in command.
“Captain Veralyn,” Joslan said, pinning the lesser officer with red-rimmed eyes, “your opinion?”
The captain took a careful sip of wine. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse from having given his account of the battle over and over. “I have told you all what I saw; the
Clairissa
didn’t simply catch fire, but was instantaneously immolated. I do not see how it could have been any other force but magic, Admiral, though I’m not well acquainted with the mystical arts.”
“But we have another witness here, don’t we?” asked Captain Donnely, casting his eyes around the crowded cabin. “Wasn’t there an aide or some such…”
“Mister Huffington.”
Huffington started when he heard his name spoken—he had begun to lose track of the discussion while watching the bustle of harbor traffic—and his skin crawled when he realized that Master Upton had been the one to name him. The master of security stepped forward from the shadows between two massive framing timbers and stared directly at Huffington, who found himself suddenly the center of everyone’s attention.
“You were secretary to Count Norris, and aboard the
Lady Gwen
during the attack, correct?” Upton asked.
“I
am
secretary to Count Norris, Master Upton,” Huffington said, straightening his posture as much as was possible in the confined space. “My master was on Plume Isle when the ships were attacked, and still is, as far as anyone knows.” The automatic response seemed flippant and he immediately regretted it, so he quickly continued. “And yes, I was aboard the
Lady Gwen
, sir.”
“And your opinion regarding the use of magic in the destruction of the
Clairissa
?”