Scimitar's Heir Read online

  “There’s gonna be nine shades of the unholy hells ta pay now, sure enough.”

  ≈

  Kelpie swam with slow, steady strokes of her tail. After six tides and too few periods of rest, she was weary. Her duties as high priestess did not generally require prolonged exertion, and she felt the strain of their travel. At least they swam in formation; the score of warriors that Eelback had brought formed a tight wedge, providing easier passage for those in the center. Dear Odea, she prayed as she glanced at Tailwalker, who swam beside her, give us strength.

  Tailwalker’s hands were bound behind his back, and a thin cord of ironweed was looped around his neck; if he slowed, the line came taut, shutting off the flow of water over his gills. This was happening more often now as he tired. His face looked pale and mottled in the light that filtered through the mats of floating seaweed overhead, his expression strained. He caught her watching him and glared, then looked away. It stabbed her heart to see the accusation in his eyes.

  He hates me, she thought, resisting the urge to go to him, to try to explain. What can I sign; that I betrayed him, but only to save his life? A muscle in Kelpie’s arm cramped, and she looked down to the fragile bundle she cradled, the son of Cynthia Flaxal, Seamage of the Shattered Isles. Another friend betrayed to save Tailwalker’s life, all because she had believed Eelback.

  The school abruptly halted, their formation jumbled as they jostled together. A large shape loomed out of the endless blue ahead, and the warriors raised a wall of tridents and lances. But Eelback, in the position of honor at the point of the wedge, raised his hand, and the weapons were lowered. Cutter, their scout, swam into the dappled light.

  *Hunting is good in these calm waters,* he signed as he displayed the large, brilliantly colored fish impaled on his harpoon. The fish was almost as long as he was, blue on top and yellow beneath, with a domed head and a slender body. *These fish lurk beneath the mats of weed just waiting to be speared!*

  *Good catch, Cutter!* Eelback signed, drawing his long knife to cut the carcass free of the harpoon. *We need the food if we are to reach Akrotia.* With a few deft strokes he separated the head, with its succulent eyes and cheek meat, and gave it to Cutter as reward. The rest he cut into strips and doled out to his school.

  *Cutter, where are Kip and Fah?* Kelpie signed with difficulty, burdened as she was by the baby in her arms. *I need them here.*

  *The dolphins obscure the blood trail of my catch, Kelpie,* Cutter explained. *I did not want any sharks following me back. They will return soon.*

  *How is your charge, Kelpie?* Eelback signed after handing her several strips of tender fish.

  *He only lives by the grace of Odea,* she signed back, swallowing the meat without pleasure. She folded back the covering of woven silkweed to uncover the round face of a landwalker baby. The child turned its face from a sudden ray of light, its mouth gaping like a fish’s. *He struggles to breathe, even though Odea’s blessing keeps him pink and warm. Food is my main concern. He is hungry, and Fah’s milk is not healthy for him.*

  *But he is surviving, and you can keep him alive, yes?* Eelback’s motions signified worry. *We cannot resurrect Akrotia without him.*

  *I can keep him alive, Eelback,* she signed, irritated that his concern was not for the child itself, but for the role it must play in his plan, *but you must let me feed him more often.*

  *It slows us down,* he complained. *Can you not feed him while we swim?*

  *No, Eelback, I cannot. I must invoke Odea’s blessing to calm Fah so she will hold still. Otherwise the baby does not swallow well, and he takes in water and regurgitates. Only by—*

  *How can anything so large at birth be so fragile?* Eelback interrupted, his fins waving in frustration. *Mer finlings are fully weaned and swimming out of their grotto by the time they are this big!*

  *This is not a finling, Eelback! This is a landwalker infant, and it will not be weaned for several seasons.* She covered the baby again and held it close, calming its agitation with the grace of Odea.

  *Seasons?* Eelback gaped in shock. *How can an offspring eat nothing but pap for seasons?*

  *I do not know, Eelback. That is simply the way it is. Landwalkers grow more slowly than mer. If you do not let me feed him more often, there will be no Seamage Flaxal’s Heir.*

  He stared at her long and hard, then gestured acquiescence. *The heir must live to reach Akrotia. We will stop again when Kip and Fah return. You can feed the child at that time, and call for a stop whenever you must feed him again. Now, we swim!*

  Kelpie fluttered her fins in resignation as she resumed her place in the formation, and the school started off at a brisk pace. Bits of bone and brightly colored fish skin fluttered in their wake and slowly sank into the depths.

  ≈

  “Destroyed? What the hells do you mean, destroyed?” Admiral Joslan’s fists hammered the top of his broad desk, and his face flushed the color of a ripe pomegranate as he surged out of his chair. “The schooner attacked without provocation?”

  Huffington stood behind the captain of the Lady Gwen, out of the line of fire of the admiral’s wrath, trying to remain inconspicuous while observing the encounter over the captain’s shoulder. Beyond the men, the great cabin’s open windows provided an impressive view of the armada and admitted an occasional feeble breath of air that did little to diffuse either the oppressive heat or the tension of the discussion at hand.

  “No, sir. The schooner was still miles to the south when the Fire Drake came under attack by a large school of merfolk, sir.” Captain Veralyn’s rigid bearing demonstrated his years of military discipline, but his hands, clenched behind his back throughout the lengthy explanation, were white with the ferocity of his grip. Huffington empathized—the ire of superiors could be taxing—but approved of the man’s sharp and forthright explanation. The admiral, on the other hand, was finding it hard to control his impatience; he repeatedly tugged on the hem of his waistcoat, and his jaw muscles clenched until Huffington thought he might hear teeth crack.

  “Merfolk!” The admiral’s face darkened even more.

  “Yes, sir. They swarmed her sides, sir. When she cut her cable and tried to make sail, she broached. They must have hooked a kedge into her hull.” The captain’s dispassionate tone quavered for just a moment, and Huffington knew he was reliving the horror of the Fire Drake’s struggle.

  “Go on,” the admiral ordered.

  “Yes, sir. The Clairissa was beating close under sweeps and tris’ls, coming to the Fire Drake’s aid, when the schooner sailed right between the two.”

  “You just said that the schooner was miles to the south.”

  “Yes, sir. She came up very quickly, faster than I’ve ever seen any ship sail. She made five sea miles in the time it took Clairissa to make half a mile to windward.”

  “The seamage,” the admiral muttered as he narrowed his eyes dangerously.

  “Yes, sir,” Veralyn continued. “Just before the schooner arrived, the wind shifted and took the Clairissa off course, so she doused all sails and proceeded under sweeps alone. I can only assume that the seamage was aboard the schooner and manipulated the winds to do this, since we were also making sail and had no such difficulty.”

  “You were making sail? Under whose orders?”

  “Commodore Twig’s, sir. He was directing the armada by signal from the Clairissa’s quarterdeck. That was when something very curious happened, sir. Something made a sound under the water, like a great clap of thunder. It shook our keel timber, sir, and the attack on the Fire Drake broke off.”

  “The mer retreated?”

  “Yes, sir. Then the schooner tacked, came about in a single ship-length, and we saw her name; she was the Orin’s Pride, the one said to have been working as a privateer along the Sand Coast.” The captain swallowed and continued without prompting. “T
he schooner had tacked once more, drawing a line between the two warships as clear as day, sir, when the attack on the Fire Drake resumed. The mer were dragging her under, and she didn’t have the men to repel them. The Clairissa was coming in under sweeps, and that was when the Orin’s Pride jibed. As her bow swept toward the flagship, she fired a single catapult at her, sir.”

  “So the schooner fired first.” The admiral’s fist cracked into his palm, his lips set in a grim line.

  “Yes, sir, and though it fell well short—a warning shot—it was quite impressive.”

  “The incendiary weapon we were told of? Distilled naphtha or flaming tar, I imagine.”

  “No, sir. Neither,” Veralyn said with a firm shake of his head. “A single cask, probably five gallons in size, but it was not aflame when it was fired. It exploded in the air, and sent a cascade of burning white streamers in all directions. They left trails of smoke as they fell, and, Admiral, you may not believe this, but they kept burning even after they hit the water! The lookouts atop our masts confirm that they could see them sinking and still burning!”

  “Magic!” The admiral spat the word as if it were a curse.

  “We thought so, too, sir. Then Commodore Twig fired a broadside of ballistae, raking the schooner good.” He looked down, then back up, obviously uncomfortable with what he had to say next.

  “Go on, Captain! Continue!”

  “The Clairissa jibed under sweeps, sir, and she was going to rake the schooner with another broadside, when…she exploded in flames, sir.”

  “Exploded?” Joslan’s eyes widened in disbelief, his jaw muscles suddenly slack. “No shot from the schooner? She just caught fire?”

  “No shot from the schooner, sir, and she didn’t just catch fire, either. She exploded. Every bit of wood and canvas on her—topmast to waterline, beak-head to poop—burst into flames at the same instant. We couldn’t do anything for her, sir. By the time she sank, the Fire Drake had gone under, too. No survivors from either ship, sir.”

  Admiral Joslan collapsed into his chair, his eyes staring blankly ahead. He sat silently for so long that Veralyn began to fidget.

  “Sir?” the captain finally ventured.

  Joslan’s eyes snapped up, and he looked at the captain as if surprised to see him still there. He cleared his throat, stood and jerked his coat straight. “Very well, Captain Veralyn. Bring Lady Gwen into the harbor when the tide shifts and moor her alongside Indomitable. I expect a written report to me by sunset. We will convene a court of inquiry tomorrow morning to assess the loss of two of His Majesty’s ships. You are dismissed.”

  “Aye, sir!” Veralyn saluted and turned on his heel for the door.

  Huffington followed a step behind, relieved that he had not been called to bear witness during the exchange. But before the door closed behind him, he heard the clatter of decanter against glass, and a single muttered word.

  “Magic…”

  Chapter 2

  Cast Off

  “Cast off dock lines and secure all stations, Chula,” Cynthia ordered as she stepped aboard Peggy’s Dream. “The Pride’s already out the channel. We’re behind.”

  “Aye, Capt’n.”

  She ignored the quizzical look on her first mate’s face as he acquiesced. Peggy’s Dream had three times as many provisions to stow with only twice the crew of Orin’s Pride; of course they were behind. But before he could give a single order, he looked beyond her shoulder, and she saw his eyes widen. She cringed.

  “Capt’n! You can’t be leavin’ me here!” Paska’s usually demanding tone was pleading as she ran up the gangplank and aboard the ship, her young son, Koybur, bouncing on her hip. The native woman grasped Cynthia’s arm, clung to it desperately. “You can’t be goin’ on dis trip wi’out a proper bosun!”

  “I’m sorry, Paska,” Cynthia said, hating the tremble in her own voice.

  The last few days had been hell, her emotions pitched high and low like a storm-tossed ship. First there had been the depression from believing her unborn child was dead, killed by the mer. It had struck her like a physical blow to find out that she had a son—alive, but abducted to fulfill some mer prophecy for bringing a lost city back to life. She did not know whether to be heartened or distraught. She had a son; the future she and Feldrin had planned, the names they’d considered, the dream of a family, hung like a golden ring just out of her grasp.

  She longed to embrace that dream, but she dared not hope. Her wedding to Feldrin had provided the only ray of light during the tumultuous time. She had worked through the night organizing the rescue mission with Feldrin, poring in vain over ancient mer scrolls for some reference to this city they sought—Akrotia. Feldrin had tried to get her to come to bed—it was, after all, their wedding night—but after an hour spent tossing and turning, imagining the worst, Cynthia had risen, dressed and gotten back to work. Her thoughts were muddled with grief and fatigue, which she kept at bay only through sheer determination. The last thing she needed right now was this particular confrontation.

  She turned, and, to her own surprise, voiced a calm rebuttal. “My decision is final. I won’t be responsible for endangering little Koybur, and you can’t leave him. Please, Paska, don’t make me order you ashore.”

  “You’re leavin’ me, but you’re takin’ me husband!” Paska countered, her voice rising. Koybur began to whimper, as if he, too, resented being left behind. Cynthia felt her determination begin to crack when Chula stepped forward and placed a hand on his wife’s arm. Paska tried to shake off his grip, but he held her firmly.

  “If you be pleased, Capt’n Shambata Daroo, let me be talkin’ to ‘er fer just a moment. We’ll be off de dock in a trice.”

  “Thank you, Chula.” Cynthia turned away and heaved a deep breath, her hand on the rail to steady herself as she slowly made her way aft. Behind her, Paska raged at Chula in their native tongue, while Chula answered in his usual steady tone, though it was now imploring. Cynthia seriously wondered who would win the argument. Aside from the normal running of the ship and their first mate-bosun interactions, she had never heard Chula tell his headstrong wife what to do. Eventually, though, Paska fell silent.

  Cynthia cast a glance over her shoulder, and wished she hadn’t. In all their time together, Cynthia had never seen Paska cry, but now she stared up at Chula, tears brimming in her eyes. Before they spilled over, Paska turned and retreated quickly up the dock, wiping a hand across her face.

  “Cast off!” Chula ordered, his voice harsher than she had ever heard.

  Cynthia watched in anguish as her loyal first mate turned back to his duty and away from the woman he loved.

  ≈

  “Here she comes.” Feldrin watched Peggy’s Dream emerge from the towering mangroves that protected the entrance to Scimitar Bay, and head out the channel through the reef. Silvery wings whizzed around his head and Mouse landed on his broad shoulder, down from his perch high in the rigging. But the seasprite didn’t chatter or cheer as was his wont. In fact, his mood was as subdued as Feldrin had ever seen. The loss of the baby had affected him deeply, and Cynthia’s single-minded resolve in planning this trip had the little sprite worried, as it did Feldrin. Partners in misery, Mouse moped around Feldrin, who patted the sprite with real affection; Mouse had saved his life, without a doubt. Besides, the sailors considered the seasprite to be good luck. He turned to Horace, who stood beside him at the rail. “Ease the sheets a bit ‘till she comes up. Cyn’ll be comin’ over.”

  “Aye, sir.” Horace snapped off a few orders, and the two great gaff-rigged sails were eased to leeward until they began to spill wind, which slowed the ship markedly. In short order, Peggy’s Dream had rounded the reef and was gaining on them. Horace shook his head as he squinted up at the Pride’s rig. “Can’t say as I’m happy with that mainmast, Capt’n.”

  “Aye,” Feldrin sai
d as he followed his first mate’s gaze to the damaged spar. A ballista bolt shot by the Clairissa had transfixed the huge spruce mast, cracking it but not fracturing it completely. Removing the bolt without causing further damage was impossible, so Dura had cut it off even with the mast, then fashioned two wide, bronze straps to encircle the mast above and below the bolt, tightening them with a wrench longer than she was tall. The mast would hold in fair winds, but if they encountered a blow, it could split up its length. “But it’ll have to do for now. The Dream’s carryin’ some extra spars, so if it looks too bad, we can replace it at sea.”

  “Aye, sir,” Horace said with reluctant acceptance.

  Feldrin turned toward the open sea and swept his glass across the horizon out of habit. He stopped and held it steady to watch a heavily rolling galleon two miles to leeward. “Whoever’s trimmin’ her sails sure needs a lesson, ay?”

  “He’s probably sayin’ the same about us right now, sir, though I see what you mean,” Horace agreed. The ship’s topsails were sheeted poorly, and her yards were braced at odd angles. She was heeling too hard and the sails were spilling wind. “At least we’re doin’ it on purpose.”

  “Well, maybe the first mate’s trainin’ a new bosun.” Feldrin smiled and clapped Horace on the shoulder as they turned toward Rhaf, the Pride’s former helmsman, now boatswain, as he tried to cajole the crew into trimming the sails to his satisfaction. He needed a bit of seasoning, but there was no other more qualified. “Which is what you’ll be doin’ as soon as—”

  With a roar, a spout of seawater rose in the wake of the ship and deposited Cynthia Flaxal Brelak on the aft deck. The water slithered away from her like a living thing, leaving her completely dry.