Scimitar Moon Page 8

  “What?” Cynthia put the books down and reached for the silver crescent. “These were my father’s?”

  “Aye, lass, that they were.” Koybur nudged through the crowd and smiled down at Cynthia. “And I think you just used up a year’s worth of luck, pokin’ into a wizard’s things without gettin’ rendered down to a puddle of whale oil.”

  Cynthia’s fingers stopped an inch from the silver crescent. “You mean there might be a trap set on his things?”

  “Oh, nothin’ you might call a trap. Wizards just have a reputation as bein’ a bit stingy with their secrets is all.” Koybur bent down onto his good knee, peering at the items inside the box. “If they haven’t hurt you yet, I don’t think they’re likely to. Them are sure enough his personal charts, and his journal and log. And that was the very crescent he wore the day he died. That there’s the sign of the seamage.” He nodded for her to go ahead and pick it up.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, lifting the silver crescent by its chain. The lower end of the crescent was worked into the shape of the hilt of a sword. In the hilt were set three tiny diamonds, a ruby and a sapphire.

  “That’s the Scimitar Moon, lass, and that you can even touch it without Odea’s hand slappin’ you down like a naughty child proves you’ve got his blood runnin’ through yer veins.”

  Mouse leapt from her shoulder to dance a jig on the hand that held the medallion’s chain, laughing with glee. Cynthia stared at the medallion, barely seeing the sprite or hearing a word from Koybur. Its surface showed tiny lines and craters, emulating the surface of the moon in bas relief. The detail was startling, so perfect and untarnished, and every gem sparkled like a newborn star. She caressed its surface with her thumb, wondering how many times her father had done the same. Without thinking, she looped the chain over her head and let the crescent rest upon her breast. It felt warm, comforting, like a part of her family that had been lost and suddenly found. Like Mouse.

  “And these books. You said one was a journal, and the other his log?”

  “Aye, lass, but you might be a bit more careful with them. Some of what’s written on them pages could very well burn yer eyes out if yer not prepared properly.”

  “Prepared?” she asked, picking up the red leather log and cracking it open. “What do you mean ‘prepared’?” But as she glanced at the angular script, the characters squirmed under her gaze, and her head throbbed in pain. “Oh my…” She slapped the tome shut, rubbing her tortured eyes. “That was like trying to look into the sun at midday!”

  “Like I said, be careful with that one. Them letters are magic, as sure as any wizard’s wand or staff.” He patted her shoulder and pointed to the other book. “That, however, I think you’ll find more to your likin’.”

  “His journal?” She lifted the black book and opened it a couple of inches, peering in carefully. Sharp letters in a precise hand greeted her… his hand, his words. She closed it carefully, knowing that she would require rest and a clear head before she could read it. “I’ll save it for later.”

  “That’s probably wise, and the same for these, though you might find them just as interestin’.” He unrolled one of the charts, and Cynthia could see that they were the most detailed she had ever seen. Contour lines in black ink, current lines in blue, with depth and the set of the current logged in different colors. Dead reckoning lines cut across both in red, with bearings from critical points scrawled along them. She started to touch them before she realized that her hands were still filthy.

  “Put them back for me, would you, Koybur? I’m afraid to get them dirty.” She pushed herself up and took a long look around. “There’s a lot more to sift through before I’ll be ready to take stock of what’s left.”

  “Aye, Ma’am.”

  Koybur sounded strange; he’d never called her ‘Ma’am’ in his life. Then realization struck: He was her employee now, and she his mistress. Their relationship had changed with this tragedy. She hoped he wouldn’t start treating her with the distant deference that he had her grandmother. She would need his honest help if she had a hope to make any of this work.

  “When all this is cleaned up, we’ll both go over the charts, Koybur. You’ve got a better eye than me. Anything you think would be of use, we’ll have copied and distributed to our captains.”

  “Aye, Ma’am. I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon. And I’ll get hold of yer creditors and let ’em know you want a word with ’em, with yer permission, of course.”

  “The day after tomorrow would be fine. And let Master Keelson know that we’ll be hauling Winter Gale for a refit as soon as she arrives.”

  “Aye, Ma’am,” he said with a nod and a smile. “That’ll be my pleasure.”

  “Right now, I think I’m going to get cleaned up and sleep for a few hours, if I can.” She nodded to Marta and Koybur and turned to what was left of her home. “Wake me if anything important comes up.”

  *

  Moonlight shone through the open window of Cynthia’s room, glittering on the tears that coursed unabated down her cheeks. So many emotions surged through her that she didn’t know what to feel.

  Upon the table behind her sat a lamp, half a glass of wine, a sleeping seasprite and her father’s open journal. The journal entries echoed in her mind—the love, the hope and the dreams—more than she could grasp. The first entry to truly capture her dated from when he met her grandfather.

  I have signed on with Benjamin Garrison, a master of ships of great repute. I met him in Tsing, and was quite impressed with both his mastery of his ship and his success as a business man. This will afford me a fine opportunity to practice my skills in the Southern Ocean. Mouse approved of Captain Garrison, and the captain tolerated the sprite’s antics with good humor. I also met the captain’s daughter, Peggy, who is currently serving as his second mate and is a fine sailor in her own right, although she seems a bit uppity…

  The passages continued to detail his whirlwind relationship with Peggy Garrison, their marriage and even the birth of his child.

  Never did I believe that anything could bring me greater joy than communing with the sea, but nothing I have ever experienced compares with this morning. Holding the fruit of my own body, my beautiful Cynthia, then watching her suckle at the breast of her equally beautiful mother, my Peggy, has humbled me beyond words. I don’t know what I have done to deserve this bounty, but I shall endeavor to be worthy of this boon and dedicate my life to preserving their safety and happiness.

  Passage by passage, Cynthia alternated between tears of joy, longing and heartbreaking sadness that left her emotionally exhausted. A glass of wine and a walk around the estate steeled her nerves, and she had finally returned to read the final few pages. But what she found there had left her bewildered.

  The time draws near for Cynthia’s voyage. In twelve days, the alignments will be correct. I’m sure we will be successful. Cynthia is such a bright child, and she has a true affinity for the sea. She watches it day by day from the garden, and her games all revolve around the sea and its denizens. I especially enjoy watching her play “sharks and mermaids”, although she’ll find out soon enough that merfolk are not such easy prey as she depicts. I worry that Mouse is gone; I always assumed he would be present for Cynthia’s Awakening, as he was for mine. Planning is critical for this voyage. The next alignment won’t occur for five years, which may be too late for Cynthia, since Odea’s requirements become more rigorous with age.

  Eventually, the significance of the voyage struck her: she was supposed to have become a seamage like her father, with powers over wind and water, over the sea and all that lay above and beneath her waves. Now her tears were for herself, and what she might have been.

  Exhaustion, wine and the overwhelming feeling of loss mounted within her, sapping her strength. She turned away from the moonlight and slid down to sit with her back to the stone of the tower’s outer wall, her tears wetting her father’s azure shirt in spots the color of midnight. Her head sagged forward onto he
r knees as the anguish of what would never be drifted through her mind, recalling and illuminating her nightmares…

  Cynthia peered out onto a scene from hell. Sailors, her grandfather’s sailors, battled fierce men who leapt onto their ship from the deck of a huge black-hulled corsair with crimson sails. She flinched as cries of rage and agony washed over her like the bloody seawater that doused her stockings.

  At the center of the melee her parents fought back to back. Her mother’s skirts were red with blood, her long rapier and poniard drenched to their hilts. Her father stood empty handed, his lips clenched tightly, his face furrowed in concentration. Water leapt at his command, dashing against the black-hulled ship even as blasts of wind beat at the crimson sails. The grappling lines that held the two ships in bondage parted like the crack of a cat o’ nine tails and the pirate ship heeled violently away until seawater spilled over its leeward rail. A shroud snapped and the pirate ship’s main mast fractured at its midpoint, falling in a mass of splintered wood, twisted line, and screaming men.

  The sailors cheered, and her parents clutched each other in a fierce, life-affirming embrace. Cynthia’s spirit lifted even as she stood, poised to rush to them and share in their love and celebration. But with an ear-splitting crack-whistle, a ballista bolt from the quarterdeck of the pirate ship ended the sailors’ revelry—and altered Cynthia’s future—in one searing jolt.

  Orin and Peggy Flaxal stood still, staring in shock at one another as blood pooled at their feet in a horrific torrent. Their lips parted, but they made no sound. Cynthia tried to call out to them, but could not make her voice work. Suddenly the ship rolled and her parents toppled to the deck, still clenched in their last embrace, staring into one another’s eyes as the life fled their bodies.

  The laughter…

  The horrible laughter drew Cynthia’s attention. There, standing at the rail near the massive weapon that had killed her parents, stood a man in black and red, his hair and beard the color of blood, a wide scar creasing his nose and cheek. His laughter rose and fell as the two ships diverged and the black-hulled ship disappeared into the mists, his evil mirth sparking a coal of rage in her heart.

  Cynthia jerked awake, cracking the back of her head against the unforgiving stone of the tower’s outer wall. Pain exploded through her skull, wrenching her thoughts from the nightmare.

  “Damn it to all Nine Hells!” she swore, pushing herself up onto trembling legs. She rubbed the lump on the back of her head and banished the dream. She’d not had one so vivid in years. It was just a dream, just a nightmare, she insisted. She had been too young to remember that day, really.

  Nightmare or memory, one element had been corroborated by men and women who had seen it: Bloodwind had killed her parents. And now, after reading Orin Flaxal’s journal, she knew that the pirate had not only taken her parents from her, but had also stolen her heritage, her future as a seamage.

  “I’ll hunt you until one of us is dead, you bastard,” she vowed, wiping away the tears that she felt would never stop. She closed the window, blocking out the moonlight, and closed her father’s journal, knowing she could never block out the troubling knowledge she had found within.

  CHAPTER Eight

  Mistress of Ships

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice, gentlemen,” Cynthia said as she entered the private room Brulo had prepared for her meeting with her creditors. Mouse flew in over her shoulder and settled on the back of the chair at the head of the table. He sketched a bow and leapt into the air, fluttering a wobbly path around the room. The four men rose from their seats, eyeing the sprite suspiciously.

  “Please excuse my little friend, Mouse. He’s been with my family since before my parents died and has grown rather fond of me. He’s harmless.”

  Mouse made a rude noise at being called harmless as she recovered the balance sheets and charts from her satchel and took her seat. She started organizing her papers, but stopped when she noticed the four men still standing.

  “Shall we get down to business?”

  “Before we begin,” one of them said, fingering the gold buttons on his waistcoat, “please let us express our heartfelt condolences. Your grandmother was an extraordinary woman. We are aggrieved beyond measure at her loss.”

  Mouse scowled at the man and fluttered the length of the table, landing on the back of Cynthia’s chair.

  “Thank you,” she said, thinking, You have no idea. “I loved my grandmother very much, and I will miss her, but in matters of business she was extraordinary only in her ability to run our shipping concerns into the ground. Now if you would please be seated, I have a few things I would like to say before we start discussing numbers.”

  Nervous glances arced among them like lightning as they took their seats.

  “Let me first say thank you for your attempts to help my grandmother manage the financial dealings of this family. I know you did your best for her, simply because the better we did, the better you did.” One of them opened his mouth to speak, but she forestalled him with a raised hand. “I am going to make some changes, and I will be the first to admit that the reasons behind these changes are not solely financial, just as my grandmother’s attempts to destroy our shipping interests were not financial.”

  “Miss Cynthia, you don’t think—”

  “Mistress Flaxal, if you please, and as much as it might surprise you all, I do think!” Her words were edged with temper. She’d been chastised by these men for everything from penmanship to punctuality far too many times to back away from a fight, especially now.

  Mouse let out a peal of laughter, so high-pitched that it hurt her ear. She shushed him with a pat of her hand and directed her attention back to her creditors.

  “I also know that my grandmother despised ships, sailors and everything associated with them, and that this family’s four leaky galleons are the most profitable venture we’ve had for the last five years.”

  At their exclamations of denial and incredulity, she dug through her papers for the charts she’d made and distributed them.

  “These pictures represent my money, gentlemen. The first one is profits, the second is expenditures and the third is the two combined, all over the last five years.” She looked around at the brows knitted in confusion, and almost laughed. “It’s simple, really: when the lines go up, I’m making money; when the lines go down, I’m losing money.”

  She let them stew a bit, their narrowed eyes analyzing the charts that they so obviously did not believe. She sipped blackbrew and buttered a hot scone. She hadn’t noticed the pastries when she came in, but they were delicious. She cut off a small corner and balanced it on her knife for Mouse, hoping to divert him from the men. She had just swallowed her second bite when the dam finally broke.

  “With all due respect, Miss— Mistress Flaxal,” the boldest of them said, letting the paper flutter to the table as if it was offensive to him, “pictures do not represent money. Money can only be represented by numbers. One must look at the balance sheets, the expenditure totals, the interest payments. A few lines, rising or falling, cannot show—”

  “Those lines do represent my money, sir. All the numbers you are so enamored with are right there for you to see, they’re just easier to look at in a chart than in twenty different columns, each row in a different hand, and none of the decimals lining up. By looking at what has happened to my money in the past, I can see what will happen in the future, and plan accordingly. It’s that simple.”

  “It is not that simple!” The man thrust himself to his feet and puffed up like a porcupine fish.

  Mouse chirped a threat from Cynthia’s shoulder and launched himself at him, but she snatched him back. She did not need the sprite’s antics to provoke them; what she had to say would be upsetting enough. She planted him on her shoulder, where he sat and sulked.

  “If you could predict financial interactions that easily, every peddler and shopkeeper in the empire would be rich! Things change from year to year, from sea
son to season, and even from month to month! To think what happened three years ago has anything to do with what might happen tomorrow is ridiculous!”

  “Why?”

  Her calm retort caught him off guard. He burbled a bit then spouted, “Because it is! Like I said, things change.”

  “So do the weather, the tides, and the fishing and hunting, but anyone who sails, fishes or hunts can predict how they will change because they’ve seen them change before.”

  “That’s something totally different!”

  “Is it really?” She stood slowly, fixing the creditor’s eyes with her own. “Then tell me how my man Koybur can turn a better profit than every other investment I’ve got? Everything you four have managed for the last dozen years has done little better than break even. You’ve been riding the back of our shipping business, getting a new lump of money to invest every time my grandmother sold another of our ships. I’m telling you that the free ride is over, gentlemen! I’m liquidating everything except the estate and the shipping business. I’m going to reinvest it in new hulls, as many as I can, as quickly as I can have them built!”

  Cynthia managed to suppress a smile.

  “You will lose money,” the creditor said, scowling across the table at her.

  “No, you will lose money.” She snapped her papers into line and put them back in her satchel. “You will liquidate my holdings, gentlemen, immediately. You will get the highest value that you can, for which you will earn your usual transaction fee. After that, since you all obviously disagree with my plans, I will no longer require your services.” Cynthia could not help but smile ever so slightly.

  “What?”

  “You can’t do that!”