Spectyr Page 6

  It was certainly not the first time a mortal had attempted such a thing, but it was quite possibly the most pathetic. Hatipai caught her arm before it had even completed its downward descent.

  While a knife blow could not have killed her, it would be a shame to mar this fine new form. It might not be enough to contain her for long, but she still enjoyed it. Holding the woman in place, she looked down. Her eyes still blazed gold; for some reason, the human eye was something her magic could not replicate. Her first instinct was to kill the pathetic creature, but when she looked deeper, she realized that would have been a kindness.

  Hatipai was not prone to kindnesses—so instead she smiled, working her lips around teeth made from the woman’s child. That was when the new widow broke down. Sobbing, she slumped to the floor.

  “What . . . what are you? What are you?” Her questions were squeezed out of a chest that appeared to be having trouble breathing.

  Hatipai raised an eyebrow—an expression she had always been fond of. Her voice was sweeter than honey, more vicious than grief. “I am the goddess you called for. You did call, didn’t you?”

  Through her pain the woman nodded, unable to deny their prayers and offerings.

  Hatipai smiled again. “So for your faith and your offerings, I thank you.” And then, naked, she walked from the room, her tiny, perfect human feet trailing patterns of blood and gore after her. The music for her progress was the wretched lamentations of the woman.

  As he stood on the quarterdeck of the Dominion and looked toward the shambling hulk of the ship on the horizon, the Young Pretender’s stomach clenched in anger.

  Many people, Raed among them, acknowledged that the new Empire had brought with it advantages: warfare was a thing largely of the past, commerce was flourishing and the people were no longer plagued as frequently by geist activity.

  One of the terrible things that remained, however, was a rotten, stinking carcass at a fine feast: slavery.

  His grandfather had often been tyrannical—holding an Empire together was not an easy task—but the issue that had haunted his reign most of all had been slavery. His crusade against it had been one of the reasons the Assembly of Princes had turned on him. At least a half dozen of them claimed their kingdoms could not manage without it.

  The new Emperor, the one who the Princes had imported from over the ocean, had proven far more compliant to their wishes. He looked the other way while islands off the coast were raided for their inhabitants, who were set to work in distant parts of the Empire. Perhaps he didn’t want to test the loyalty of his benefactors so soon. Perhaps he felt he needed to wait and find his feet. Whatever his reasoning, Raed had none of those concerns.

  Slave ships were his natural prey. His hunting earned his father much kudos among the ramshackle towns of the scattering of small islands between Arkaym and Delmaire. Today he would free more slaves and then use the stinking remains of the ship for his own purposes. Two birds had never been more efficiently killed with one stone.

  With nod of his head, Aachon called for the topsail to be unfurled, and the Dominion leapt through the water to her purpose. Her crew meanwhile sharpened cutlasses and prepared for battle. No slave ship, low in the water and with the blunt scow features, could ever hope to match the brigantine’s speed.

  At his left shoulder, Tangyre drew her sword. “I find I am rather growing to like your plan, my Prince.”

  “This is the easy bit,” Aachon observed in a low undertone.

  “But also the most satisfactory,” Raed replied, as the Dominion bore down on the slave ship. This close, the grubby lettering on its hull could be made out.

  Sweet Moon might be a very unlikely name for a ship of this ilk—slavers often had a curious sense of humor. On the deck, several of them could be seen, also preparing for battle.

  Raed called out, and Aleck quickly raised their flag. The Rossin’s mer-shape flapped free and loose, spilling out into the breeze with a sharp snap. The Young Pretender felt his throat constrict at the sight of his tormentor. Yet it was not just he who feared the image. A cry arose from the slavers. They now knew whom they faced.

  Skimming across the waves, the Dominion came on fast like retribution. Aachon steered them skillfully, until they were stealing the wind right out of the Sweet Moon’s sails.

  “Heave to,” Aachon bellowed, “or we will blow your sorry arse out of the water!”

  Perhaps the Rossin flag had been the wrong choice, because the slavers did the exact opposite. As the sailors of the Dominion scrambled to navigate their ship up within grappling range, the slavers on the Sweet Moon began throwing struggling forms off the stern.

  “By the Blood,” Raed roared, standing on the rigging. “Filthy murderers!” He knew there was no time for grappling hooks.

  “My Prince—” Aachon surged forward, but it was too late.

  The Young Pretender wrapped one arm around a portion of the running rigging and kicked out hard from his ship. The ocean raced by under his feet, but years of sailing made Raed very adept at judging distance. Behind him a half dozen of his crew followed in his wake.

  He landed on the swaying deck, dropped down lightly from the rope and grappled a swarthy shape that was about to thrust a manacled woman into the heaving sea. The slaver howled as Raed buried his knife into his neck. Blood poured onto the deck, while the woman screamed like it had been her who had been cut.

  More of his crew landed next to him, and suddenly the slavers found their mettle was being tested by people who could fight back, sailors and soldiers trained in combat, and not shackled villagers.

  The crew of the Dominion set to their work with relish, and for a little while the deck heaved with grunts and groans. Blood madethe deck slippery, but Raed barely noticed—caught as he was in the delight of good, honest combat.

  It didn’t last long, however. Raed wiped his blade clean on the cloak of a fallen slaver. In truth he was glad they had put up a fight. He had no mercy for their kind, and yet he couldn’t have brought himself to act as they had. As his crew brought the Sweet Moon to a dead halt in the water, Raed found the ring of keys on the chief slaver’s body.

  Gently he touched the woman on the shoulder. She looked up, tears streaking a face that was twisted with fear. “Please,” she whispered through a strained throat, “make it quick.”

  Raed bent and unlocked her shackles. “We are your rescuers, not your killers, my lady.”

  The look she leveled at him was not just filled with gratitude—it also contained a fair amount of anger—not at him but at a world in which people could be sold like cattle, a world in which you could be tending your fields in the morning and find yourself shackled in the bowels of a slave ship in the evening. Outlying islands were treated like farms by certain principalities.

  Raed didn’t know what he could do to dampen that rage. With a gesture but not a touch, he indicated she should go forward to where the crew of the Dominion were flinging open the hatches.

  The slaves clambered out, reeking of sweat, urine and terror, unable to even move to have their shackles struck loose. This was a small consignment on a ship designed to stick to the coast and bring slaves right into the Empire via the river systems. They must have spent weeks in a holding pen before being shipped out on this vessel.

  Aachon strode up to his captain and looked down at the pitiful scene without uttering a word.

  “With everything we suffer, why do they have to add to this?” Raed muttered. “How is it that I thought the geists were the worst affliction of the Empire?”

  His first mate sighed. “It is not a perfect world, my Prince.”

  Wiping her blade on a portion of fallen slaver’s coat, Tangyre joined them. Her expression was one of distaste. “I had forgotten that such filth had returned to Arkaym.”

  It was not his friend’s fault, but Raed knew that in his father’s sphere of influence many things about those left behind had been forgotten. In the Coronet Isles it was easy to forget the world bey
ond their shores. “Unfortunately, I cannot fix the ills of the Empire, Tang.”

  As they had planned, they shepherded the slaves—who flinched from even the kindest hand—over to the Dominion. Aachon stood on the gunwales and looked between the crew and those ten men chosen to remain with Raed.

  The Young Pretender stepped closer to his friend. “You are to return these people to their homes and then take shelter in the islands off the Bay of Winds, Aachon. Plenty of places to hide there, just in case the Emperor decides to raise the price on my head. We will look for you there when we have Fraine safely back.”

  “My Prince”—the first mate put up one final protest—“there is still time to reconsider this.”

  Raed also felt the wrench, but this was the only sensible thing to do. “You swore to protect me, old friend, but you also have a duty to the crew. I will not sacrifice their lives for mine, and I cannot take all of them into Chioma. You’re the only one I would trust to keep the Dominion safe.”Dominiondiv width="1em">Aachon sighed. They had argued long the previous day, and it had taken a direct order from Raed to finally get him to obey.

  “Look”—the Young Pretender clapped Aachon on the shoulder—“Tang is here, and you have always been my friend, not my bodyguard—despite what my father said to you. You know we cannot abandon the crew out here.”

  The first mate thought for a moment and finally gave a curt nod. “I only do this because Captain Greene is, like I, ordered to protect the royal bloodline.” He gave an elaborate Court bow. “Remember who you are, my Prince, and bring your sister and yourself back safe.”

  With that, he stepped across to the Dominion, and in his great booming bass voice ordered the crew to cast off. He did not stand on the deck and watch the Sweet Moon fall away. Raed smiled. No, his friend would never do that.

  So, taking a leaf from his book, the Young Pretender would not look after his ship like a love-struck fool, wondering if he’d ever see her again. He had plenty enough of that in his life.

  Raed turned his mind away from his ship and toward Fraine. He took stock of those he had chosen in this mission; five of his most reliable fighters from the Dominion. They included Laython, the dour little quartermaster; Snook, the best navigator of river or sea; and Captain Tangyre Greene. These were three women he would stake his life on. It felt like he was always placing his life into the hands of women.

  His thoughts were getting away on him again. Sorcha. He pushed that memory away as best he could—as he had for the last season.

  Snook, the rail-thin navigator, took the wheel in her hands and looked straight at him. “Where to, Captain?”

  It was said so lightly that they might have been going out for a Sunday stroll rather than proceeding into the heart of the Empire. It made Raed smile as he strode over to stand at her shoulder.

  “Your best speed to Londis, Mistress Snook. We need to get our papers to travel farther upriver.”

  “Your sister will be so proud,” Tangyre whispered into his ear.

  “I hope she lives to tell me that,” Raed replied as the Sweet Moon swung to the south, into the night and toward the danger of Chioma.

  SIX

  Watched Clocks

  Everything was taking a damned long time. Sorcha stood in the shade of the portico, smoked her cigar and watched the baggage train being loaded with all the patience of a child waiting for a treat. So far, preparations had eaten up the entire morning, and the oxen had not even been secured. Her mood was not helped by Kolya’s presence. He was smart enough to stay out of her way on the far side of the courtyard, but his eyes never left her.

  Despite the Council’s ruling, part of her was nervous he would jump aboard the dirigible at the last moment. She’d thought him so predictable when they were married, but everything was different now. His sudden streak of determination had her worried.

  In her pocket, under the cover of her blue cloak where he could not see, her hand was clenched on the mysterious badge she had found on the dead body of Arch Abbot Hastler. On one side was embroidered a picture of a snake eating its own tail, but it had been image on the reverse that had caused her far more concern.

  The shape of a circle of five stars impressed itself on her palm as her fist tightened. She had needed no research to tell her what it was. That symbol could still be found on pieces of the Abbey—those that were out of reach of the ancient vandals, that was. It was the sign of the Native Order, the one that had been obliterated long before her own had come over with the Emperor scant years before.

  For three months Sorcha had kept the badge behind a loose brick in her chamber, but this morning she had fished it out. The spectyr had shown her a circle of stars, and she would have been a fool not to spot the connection.

  “Still at it, are they?” Merrick, the master of silent arrivals, made her jump. He was chewing on a bit of white bread smeared with a great yellow gob of butter, while holding another in his left hand.

  “Thought you were just going for a breath of air?” Sorcha slid her fist out of her pocket, ground out the stub of her cigar and calmed her thoughts as best she could. She was not yet prepared to share her concerns with him—not until they proved more solid.

  Her partner shrugged. “I happened to pass by the Imperial kitchens—their food is so much better than even the Mother Abbey’s.” He held out a portion of the still-warm bread. “Tell me I am wrong.”

  Taking his offering, Sorcha perched herself on the railing and bit into the bread. The food at the Abbey was perfectly fine, if plain—this was another matter. The taste of spices filled her mouth as the crisp crust broke into the soft fluffy center—it needed neither butter or cheese to make it delicious.

  Her eyebrows shot up. “I can see why the aristocrats always have a difficulty with their girth.”

  Merrick, who was more of a stickler for the politenesses of society, finished his mouthful before replying. “The spices are the baker experimenting—apparently they brought boxes and boxes of them.” He jerked his head to where the silk-clad Chiomese were adjusting packs on a line of donkeys. Then his eyes alighted on Kolya. “Quite persistent, isn’t he.”

  It was not a question. Sorcha decided this particular bull needed his horns taken hold of. Kolya straightened as she came his way, a genuine smile on his face, and for an instant she actually caught a glimpse of the man she’d married. That only irritated her more. She had pleaded with him time after time to show her his feelings, let her in, but it was only once she had left him that he had done anything about it.

  “Just come to see you off.” Kolya gave her a somewhat stilted bow.

  It was incredibly awkward, and Sorcha’s irritation withered away. She’d spent so many years with this man, trusted her life to him, but now they were caught between intimacy and coldness. Yet she knew if she reached out, he would take it as good sign and expect something she could no longer give him. So she kept herself still. “You shouldn’t have,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. “Really . . . you shouldn’t have.” He winced at the sadness in her face.

  Kolya’s jaw clenched. “I still care, Sorcha.”

  Sorcha bit back her reply that she did too. It would only hurt and confuse him, so she replied, “I am afraid that some things you can’t fix once the time has passed.” She folded her hands to stop them from doing anything that might be misconstrued. Instead she turned away and returned to Merrick.

  tSo”—she leaned next to her partner and deliberately did not watch Kolya leave the courtyard—“educate me on this Kingdom of Chioma.”

  He glanced at her but was wise enough not to ask about what had transpired. Besides, he was younger than she and enjoyed, perhaps a little too much, any chance to show his skills. Unlike Kolya, who had always talked down to her when imparting information, Merrick oozed almost puppylike enthusiasm. She knew which she preferred.

  Pulling up a chair, he sat down and propped his feet on the low wall. “As a boy I read as much as I could about it—not that there was much to f
ind. It is the only principality that has never been invaded and never had its Prince deposed.”

  “Impressive.” Sorcha glanced over her shoulder with new appreciation. The Empire’s history was rife with conflict, invasions and atrocities. She knew of no Prince of Arkaym whose dominion went back more than a few generations. It was what made her own Emperor nervous of Raed and his distant father. One day, when Kaleva was more secure on his throne, she was sure that the Coronet Isles would no longer be far enough away to protect the Unsung. Even the Emperor was not immune to arranging accidents for his opponents.

  “They also have kept hold of their state religion”—Merrick grinned—“so remember not to call the little gods that there. It could be . . . awkward.”

  Sorcha rolled her eyes. As someone who had looked into the bleak face of the Otherside, she had no time for such foolishness. “It’s like that, is it? Very well, I will hold my tongue.”

  The corner of Merrick’s mouth twitched, but he made no comment. “Actually, they are so firm in their beliefs that the Prince of Chioma had to give special dispensation for the Imperial Dirigible to even approach Orinthal.”

  “What?”

  Her partner flicked crumbs off his cloak and chuckled. “They don’t much hold with new inventions. In fact, they believe flying through the air an affront to their goddess Hatipai.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful place.” Sorcha didn’t care if her voice was dripping with sarcasm.

  Merrick cleared his throat. “Perhaps not in all things. They still cling to very”—he stopped and pressed his lips together before going on‚—“regional ways. Only men are allowed to rule there—just as the place I was born.”

  It was the first time he had ever spoken of his home, but he looked dreadfully uncomfortable about it, so Sorcha held back her sharp reply. The Emperor still had much work to do, and she was not so blind to think the world a perfect place. Slavery and ignorance, like stubborn weeds, still clung here and there.