A Daughter of No Nation (7 page)

“Why?”

“She can't veto the plan if she doesn't know about it.” She flushed, seeming to dare Sophie to lecture her.

“Well, we can bring guests,” Sophie said. “Want to come, Parrish?”

Verena stiffened.

Parrish scratched his head, considering.

“Don't jump to say yes,” Sophie said.

“Your father dislikes me.”

She felt an odd rush of relief. “Right. It's not fair to ask.”

“I'd be glad to attend you,” he said. “I'm just not sure my presence will aid with the task at hand.”

“It's not a task,” she said. “It's getting to know all you guys who are my birth family.”

He gave her that odd, balked look. “Technically, I'm not—”

“Shut up, Parrish. Of course you're part of the family,” Verena said. “Sophie's right: you have to come. If Annela and Cly start in on each other, we may need a referee.”

 

CHAPTER    
4

They sailed into the Fleet from the rear, first passing a three-masted schooner bristling with youngish sailors, all clad in the ochre breeches and sand-colored shirts that were the navy's day uniform. The ship was laden with equipment, armed not for war but disaster: it had extra lifeboats and a range of floats, pumps for water cannons to fight fire, ladders, and a big tower with a spotlight.

“Rescue vessel?” Sophie asked.

“
Shepherd,
” Verena said. They had climbed up into the rigging for a better view. “The unofficial entry point to the city.”

Tonio and the sailor on watch aboard
Shepherd
exchanged a complicated series of halloos as they sailed past. Fifteen minutes later, the reason for all the rescue equipment became obvious, as they encountered the ships at the rear of the Fleet. Some were barely more than leaky rowboats, hardly fit for scrap, let alone oceanic crossings.

Bumboats, Sophie remembered. Tonio called them bumboats.

The little eight- and ten-footers were crewed by thin, perpetually sunbaked people, many of whom raised wares in
Nightjar
's direction as they passed.

“Buy a cooking pot, Kir, finest metalwork from the Isle of—”

“Mussels and clams, mussels and clams from the Tallon territorial limit.”

“Ram husks for mining magic!”

“Tunics and pantaloons, dyed on Gittamot!”

“Fortune-teller! Know your futures, Kirs!”

“Ready girls, ready boys, take your ease, ready to please—”

“Smokes and powders!” The reek of marijuana coming off that vessel made further explanation of that one unnecessary.

As
Nightjar
glided through the vast oceangoing slum, the boats became steadily bigger and, by their look, more seaworthy. People stopped hawking their wares by shouting, relying instead on placards hung port and starboard, signs with business names and pictures of whatever they had on offer. Individual shops first, but then the ships got big enough to house what were effectively apartment blocks and strip malls. In time they were passing ships as densely active as an urban street at home.

“
Gatehouse
ahead!” Tonio shouted.

“Match course and speed,” Parrish ordered. “Ready to accept pilot.”

“This would be where the suburbs become the city,” Verena said. “If someone says between
Gatehouse
and
Shepherd,
they mean…” She gestured to their rear.

Sophie nodded, keeping her mouth shut. She didn't want Verena to remember she wasn't supposed to be playing tour guide.

They were coming abreast with another craft as obviously official as
Shepherd,
filled, as
Shepherd
was, with uniformed sailors. This ship was armed: a half-dozen sailors on her quarterdeck were built like
Nightjar
's cannoneer. They stood at the ready, near barrels that, presumably, held the same sand Krezzo had used to form his magical cannonballs.

“Run out the plank!” someone called.

A rotund fellow trotted toward the rail of
Gatehouse,
looking for all the world as though he was going to run off the edge of the deck. His beard hung in a thick blue-black braid to his navel; his arm was tucked over his chest to keep it from flying off every which way.

As he approached the
Gatehouse
rail he seemed to rise, as if he'd been on a ramp, and then he sprang up, bouncing on what turned out to be a small, square trampoline.

There was a loud
buh-buh-buh twang!

Whisks of silver light enveloped him as he shot up, straight into the air. The man curled, rolling in midflight; then he landed with a sprightly bounce on
Nightjar
's deck and presented himself to Parrish before taking the helm.

It was evening, and by now the Fleet was little more than a collection of lanterns on rails and sails, stretching in every direction. Overhead, the stars were coming out, barely dimmed by the thousands of candleflames. The breeze coming off Northwater was chilly and invigorating.

“Kir Sophie!” That was Sweet, belowdecks, her shout muffled by the length of the ship and the heavy wood floor. “Help!”

And a shriek: Corsetta.

She and Verena clambered down, racing to the improvised brig.

The girl had held her own during the day—she'd slept a lot, managing to keep down the broth and some gruel. The burns on her arms had—perhaps thanks to the amoxycillin—seemed to be free of infection. But she'd been feverish and nigh delirious, and the head wound—

As Sophie crossed the threshold into her cabin, she saw Corsetta's skin flowing, as if it were melted wax.

The girl wailed as the crisped parts of her hands and fingers liquefied into red and brown smears. The color diffused into the general flow of her skin, melding into her tan in a way that reminded Sophie of painters mixing pigments.

“Magic?” she asked.

“Yes.” Verena grasped the girl by the shoulders. “Corsetta, listen to me. Someone's laid an intention on you.”

“Impossible,” she gasped. “It—”

“Does it hurt?” Sophie said. “I might have something—”

“Tickles, just tickles.” She said it through clenched teeth. “But, no. Nobody knows my full name—ahhhhh!”

“What about your parents?”

“Dead.”

Orphaned at fifteen. Poor kid. “Okay, your boyfriend?”

Her eyes snapped open. “Rashad would
never
tell—”

“So he does know your name?” Sophie demanded.

Twisting, Corsetta groaned in a way that suggested pleasure, not pain. Sophie felt a stab of embarrassment as the girl curled in on herself.

Even so, Sophie was braced for the worst. She had seen men scripped to death, murdered by a spell that killed them from afar.

Corsetta took in a long, shuddering breath as her waxy skin flexed once and then seemed to snap into place, tanned, healthy, leaving her without so much as a pimple. She sat upright, catching at the sheets just in time to preserve her modesty, and felt for the injury on the back of her head.

Up on deck, Sophie heard the
fa-twang
of the trampoline again, the thump of someone landing above.

“I've been healed!” Corsetta said. “You're right, Kirs. My beloved must have…”

“Yes?”

She shrugged, not quite pulling off the attempt to seem casual. “Someone must have told him I was in danger.”

Still hiding something
. Whether Corsetta was an orphan or not, Sophie's sympathy evaporated.

“I will see Rashad again.” Corsetta's tone was thoughtful, almost surprised.

“That's great,” Verena said. Her enthusiasm seemed forced. “We'll find something for you to wear, okay?”

“To love!” She grabbed up the glass of water on the bedside table, toasting.

“Cheers. Come on, Sophie.” Verena tugged her out. “Did that seem fishy to you?”

Sophie nodded. “But she's gonna live—that's good. She even gets to keep her burned hands.”

“Yeah.”

“You don't think it was the boyfriend who had her cured?”

“If he's Corsetta's age, he might be reckless. Or … I suppose his family could have beaten her name out of him.”

“Why would they restore Corsetta if it's his brother who tossed her overboard?”

Verena shrugged.

“I totally think she's up to something. But she's not going to drop dead. That's a win, right?”

“Yes.” There was a visible change as Verena let that sink in. Her shoulders came down and she smiled.

“If the girl is healthy, I'm afraid she's under arrest.”

Sophie whirled, surprised.

Her birth father, Clydon Banning, was standing next to Parrish.

“Child—” he began, and then he caught himself. She'd asked him, more than once, not to call her that. “Forgive me. Dear one. May I?”

He opened his arms—Cly was a serious hugger—and Sophie went willingly enough.

Her birth father was a tall whip of a man, keen-eyed and lean, with an air that was both wolfish and genial. He embraced her heartily, planting a kiss on what was threatening to become his usual spot atop her head, and bowed to Verena. “Kir Feliachild,” he said. “Fair seas to you. How are you keeping?”

Something in his tone, too much innocence, hinted that he knew the answer.

Verena flinched, just a little. “Just fine. Thanks. Did you say Corsetta's to be arrested?”

He flicked a hand. “The Watch detained the crew of
Waveplay,
as Sophie requested. They claim your rescuee attacked their paymaster and tried to make off with their cash box. They don't know how she ended up adrift.”

“Do you believe them?” Sophie said.

Cly looked surprised. “Does it matter? Once they're all detained, the Watch will learn the truth. If she's no longer dying, there's no great import.”

“It's attempted murder.”

“And thus a problem for the courts,” Cly said. “They can always duel it out if they're in a hurry.”

“You don't care, in other words.”

“Officially, I cannot. Well, Sophie, have you decided to see Sylvanna with me?”

She was, irrationally, irked. “I dunno. Have you decided to stop jerking Beatrice around?”

Awkward silence spilled from this. Cly's eyebrows climbed into his hairline.

“Oh, what?” Sophie said. “We were going to sit around a banquet table with Annela, eating mutton and crumpets, with all of you actively hating each other and nobody wanting to talk their way around to business? I'm not doing that.”

Cly laughed. “Put that way, I have to say it does sound like a terrible way to spend an evening.”

Parrish said, delicately, “I'm sure you both underestimate your charms.”

“Yeah, right. Cly, if it happened to be the case that Beatrice could get sprung from house arrest—ship arrest?—could she be released on bail? Do you have bail?”

“We do,” he said. “You understand, of course, that I have no role in Beatrice's case beyond that of plaintiff. My position in the Judiciary—”

“Yes, yes, you're unconnected to her getting confined. But if she was, miraculously, to get bail, what would you want for that?”

“Come to Sylvanna,” he said promptly. “See my estate, meet my neighbors, attend the Highsummer festival, and consider a possible role within the Banning family.”

“Okay. So—you let Beatrice go, then I come on a visit—”

“You visit me
while
the Judiciary reviews Beatrice's status.”

Before she could reply, Sweet and the cook appeared abovedeck.

“She's gone, Kirs,” Sweet said.

“Excuse me?”

“Corsetta's cabin is empty.”

Cly frowned. “Did you not have her under guard?”

Parrish said, “The cabin was locked. Sweet, have the ship searched.”

“She's a kid,” Sophie said. “She's harmless.”

“Let's hope you're right.” Cly returned his attention to Sophie. “Well? Do we have an agreement?”

She bit her lip. “It's not horrifying there, is it? Women can vote and own stuff? I could invite Bram someday and he wouldn't get harassed for being … how did you guys put it?”

“Inclined to men,” Tonio said in a pointed tone—he was gay, too. “And Sylvanna—”

“That's enough, Tonio!” Verena barked.

“Inclined.” Sophie studied her birth father's face as she said it, but there was no sign that Bram's being gay was news to him, let alone that it perturbed him at all.

“Invite Bramwell along, if you wish. There will be no difficulty for him, I promise. Every adult on Sylvanna has a right to physical security, to earn a living, and to self-determination. The latter clause of our constitution covers romantic inclinations.”

A rush of relief. “Then what are you guys all so wrenched about?”

“You'll need someone to draft an agreement.” Verena's voice was tight.

“Will we?”

“You will,” Verena said. To Cly, she added, “Everything aboveboard and on the record, Your Honor.”

He gave her the sort of look he might offer a beagle if it had peed on his shoe. “Of course. And now, since dear Sophie has so bluntly noted that you and I and your cousin Gracechild would make a thoroughly dreary dinner party, I think I'll excuse myself and leave you all to catch up. Don't worry, I'll send my apologies to our hostess. I believe she's fond of apricots?”

“Uh…” Sophie said.

“Hush.” He waved airily. “We'll have time, you and I. You deserve an unspoiled evening with your Verdanii relations.”

Is that what I deserve?

“I'll draw up the document Kir Feliachild proposes so your lawyer can examine it.” With an extravagant bow, he sprang to the rail of
Nightjar,
whistling for a ferry. He was gone a moment later.