Naamah's Blessing (30 page)

B
ao was already out of our narrow berth, reaching for his bamboo staff. I came out of sleep hard, still entangled in the remnants of my dream, imagining I could smell the lingering trace of Jehanne’s perfume, feel the silken warmth of her arms wrapped around me.

“What is it?” I asked sleepily. A jolt of alarm raced through me, and I sat upright. “Ah, gods! Is it a fire?”

Bao shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Barefoot and sleep-disheveled, we raced topside, scrambling up the ladder, the other inhabitants of the wardroom hard on our heels.

On the main deck, we found a grim-faced Denis de Toluard with one of Rousse’s sailors in his custody, others surrounding them. In the dim light of the safety lanterns hanging from the masts, I couldn’t tell who Denis had in his grip.

“Denis?” I felt disoriented and bewildered. “What passes here?”

Captain Rousse pushed his way through the knot of sailors. “I’d like to know that myself!”

“Captain.” Denis greeted him with a curt nod. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came abovedeck for a bit of fresh air.” He shook the fellow by the scruff of his neck. “I found this one slinking out of the chart-house.”

“And this shoved under his shirt.” Alaric Dumont, the first mate, showed the captain his thick logbook containing all his invaluable notes and charts. “Pried the lock on the case by the look of it.”

“What?” Septimus Rousse sounded as bewildered as I felt. He peered at the fellow. “Edouard? What in the world were you doing?”

The sailor didn’t answer. I recognized him now, a tall Eisandine fellow I knew only as a hard worker.

“Edouard!” The bewilderment in Captain Rousse’s voice gave way to rising anger. He grabbed the front of the sailor’s shirt in one fist. “Tell me! What in the seven hells were you doing with my logbook?”

“Nothing good,” Bao muttered beside me.

The sailor kept his silence. With a roar of disgust, Rousse flung him to the deck, planting his feet and towering over him.
“Tell me!”

Whatever he was about, this Edouard had courage. He kept his mouth stubbornly shut on his secret.

“All right, then.” With an effort, Septimus Rousse took a step backward and collected himself. “Alaric, put him under guard.” He glanced at the eastern horizon. “Come dawn, we’ll see if a spot of keelhauling will make him talk. Night shift, resume your posts.” Turning to me, he bowed. “My apologies, my lady. I assure you, the matter will be dealt with.”

The crowd gathered on the deck dispersed. Bao and I returned to our wardroom along with the others.

Now that the crisis had been contained, I was wide-awake, my nerves jangling. I daresay all of us were. We kindled a lantern and sat at the long table that bisected the room, discussing the matter.

“Why would anyone steal the captain’s logbook?” Brice de Bretel mused. “Name of Elua! We’d be lost at sea without it!”

Balthasar studied his fingernails. “Precisely.”

I swallowed hard. “You think he meant to sabotage the expedition?”

He shot me a look. “What else?”

“Rousse should have beaten a confession out of him!” Alain Guillard said in a fierce voice.

“Are you familiar with the practice of keelhauling?” Denis inquired. The other shook his head. “Believe me, the captain doesn’t intend to go easy on him.”

“What do you think, my lord Denis?” I asked him. “You’re the one spotted the fellow. What was he planning to do with the logbook?”

“At best, hide it. At worst…” He shrugged. “Dispose of it.”

“But that’s madness!” Clemente DuBois’ eyes were wide. He was alleged to be a skilled swordsman, but I wasn’t overly impressed with his intellect. “Why would anyone do such a thing? It would doom us all!”

“Most likely,” Bao said in a pragmatic tone. “I think that was the idea. For sure, it would doom the mission to failure.”

Balthasar glanced up from his nails. “The more interesting question is, who put him up to it?”

There was silence in the wardroom. All of us, even slightly dim-witted Clemente DuBois, knew that the list of folk who stood to benefit from the failure of our expedition was a very, very short one.

“Would he?” I asked in wonder. “Would Duc Rogier do such a thing?”

Balthasar shrugged. “Unless the man’s stark, raving mad, someone did. Someone provided a damn powerful incentive to get a man to risk throwing his own life away just to scuttle our mission.”

“We need a confession from him,” Denis said in a low voice. “We need to know if there are others, or if he was working alone. And whatever else happens, whether we succeed or fail, if we live to see Terre d’Ange again, our noble Regent can’t be allowed to get away with this.”

“It’s not going to be easy,” Bao commented. “Hard to get a man ready and willing to die to talk.”

“He’ll talk,” Denis predicted. “Once he’s had a taste of keelhauling, he’ll talk. I saw it done to a sailor caught stealing rations on the first voyage.” He shuddered. “He’ll beg for a chance to talk.”

In that, he was wrong.

Come dawn, I found out exactly what the process of keelhauling entailed. In theory, it was simple. A long rope was tied under the sailor Edouard’s arms, and he was lowered overboard to be dragged along
side the ship. I thought the threat of drowning must be the worst of it, but it was only part. After weeks at sea, the sharp-edged barnacles that clustered on the ship’s hull tore at the fellow’s flesh.

Three times, Captain Rousse ordered Edouard lowered and dragged; and three times, he came up coughing and sputtering seawater and bleeding from increasingly numerous gashes, his clothing in tatters.

Each time, he refused to break his silence.

By the third time, Edouard was half-drowned, lying limp and listless on the deck, leaking fluids.

Septimus Rousse prodded him with a booted toe. “Would you rather the flogger?” he asked. “That’s what’s next for you, my lad.”

I winced.

“My lord captain,” Balthasar addressed him in a casual tone. “Forgive me for this breach of protocol, but I have a proposal.” His dark blue eyes glinted, and I felt the uneasy stirring of his gift and a sharp taste like metal in my mouth. “As no doubt you know, members of House Shahrizai are well versed in… certain arts, which can be put to many uses. And it’s been far, far too long since I had a chance to employ them.” He bared his teeth in a smile. “Would you be willing to consider allowing
me
to question this man?”

On the deck, Edouard made a faint sound of protest.

The captain gave Balthasar a long, considering look. “You know, that’s not the worst idea I’ve heard.”

Balthasar’s smile widened. “I’m glad you think so.” He nodded at the prone sailor. “Have him cleaned up, put some dry clothes on him, and bring him to the wardroom. I don’t want him dripping and bleeding all over the place. Yet.”

Although I didn’t want to undermine him in public, belowdeck I confronted Balthasar. “My lord, you’re proposing to torture the fellow for your own pleasure! I cannot condone it.”

“If it works, does it matter whether or not I take pleasure in it?” he inquired. “How is that worse than the punishment the captain’s already meted out? Or the further punishment he had in store?”

“It’s just… wrong!”

He sighed. “Moirin, listen. What I proposed and what I plan to do are not entirely the same thing. Tell me, have I earned a measure of trust from you?”

Reluctantly, I nodded.

“Then give it to me now.” Balthasar’s gaze was steady and grave. “I swear on my honor, I know what I’m doing.”

Clemente DuBois essayed a feeble jest. “Couldn’t you find something more convincing to swear on?”

Balthasar ignored him. “I would ask all of you to trust me,” he said, glancing around the wardroom. “Watch, but don’t intervene. And if I ask you to leave us alone, go immediately. Are we agreed?”

After a pause, everyone nodded.

“Good. Now someone go find out the fellow’s surname for me.”

In short order, one Edouard Durel was escorted to the wardroom with his hands tied behind his back. He was clad in dry clothing, and his wounds had been dusted with powdered alum to halt the bleeding. Although his expression was stoic, I could smell acrid fear-sweat on him.

I daresay Balthasar could, too. “Edouard Durel,” he drawled in greeting, pointing at the long table with the tip of his belt knife. “Do have a seat, won’t you?”

The fellow sat. The rest of us stood in the doorways of our cabins, watching while Balthasar paced around the table, toying idly with his knife. Light from the lantern glinted on its razor-sharp edges. The sailor tracked Balthasar’s progress warily.

“Not a very pretty toy, is it?” Balthasar said apologetically, pausing to stroke the sailor’s cheek with one keen edge. “Pity I didn’t bring a set of flechettes, but I didn’t think I’d have a chance to play.” Leaning down, he whispered in the fellow’s ear. “Thank you so very much for this opportunity. I’ve never inflicted pain on anyone against their will, but I must confess, I’ve always wondered what it would be like.”

Cords in the man’s neck tightened. “You commit heresy!”

“Do you think so?” Balthasar increased the pressure, opening
a thin gash, which he then probed lovingly with the tip, working it beneath the skin. The sailor gritted his teeth. I caught my breath, and Bao squeezed my arm. “I don’t see it that way at all. Mayhap you would be interested in hearing my perspective?”

The sailor didn’t answer.

“You are a thief, Messire Durel.” Balthasar prowled around the table and took a seat opposite the fellow. His eyes were unnaturally bright in the lamplight, pupils dilated with arousal. “That is not in question. And since your actions could quite possibly have doomed the lot of us to death by starvation or worse, one might consider you guilty of attempted murder.
I
do.”

Edouard Durel looked away.

“Mighty Kushiel was in charge of administering punishment to the damned.” There was a terrible tenderness in Balthasar’s voice. “They say he loved his charges too well. You have condemned yourself to Kushiel’s ungentle mercy, Messire Durel, and as a proud scion of Kushiel’s line, it is my duty as well as my pleasure to administer it.” He stroked the blade of his knife. “How well shall
I
come to love you, I wonder?”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” Sweat beaded on the sailor’s brow. “You can’t punish me for something that never happened!”

Balthasar made a
tsk-tsk
sound. “Do you imagine Kushiel does not judge you for your intentions?” he asked, leaning across the table to tickle the fellow under his chin with the knife tip. “Hmm?”

Durel jerked his head backward. “
You
cannot prove it!”

“Ah, well, no. But I have the certitude of faith, and I am willing to risk my immortal soul for it.” Balthasar prodded harder. “Tell me, did you intend to hide the logbook or toss it overboard?”

The sailor resumed his silence.

“No matter.” Balthasar withdrew the knife and took a whetstone from his purse, running it over the blade’s edge in a hypnotic rhythm, his overbright gaze fixed on Edouard’s face. “More important, who are you protecting?”

Again, the fellow looked away, his jaw tight.

“Oh, I don’t mean the Regent, or whoever put you up to this.” Balthasar waved the knife in a careless gesture. “No, no. I’ll come to that in time. Right now, I’m interested in getting to know
you
, Messire Durel.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his fists, still holding the knife and whetstone. “You attempted a heinous deed that might well have condemned you to a miserable death along with the rest of us. What stakes could possibly be high enough to prompt a man to do such a thing?”

Edouard Durel was sweating profusely now, sweat running in sheets down his face, mingling with the blood from the gash on his cheek. The wardroom stank of his fear, and I felt more than a little sick.

“Ah, now I begin to see! You got yourself in trouble, didn’t you?” Balthasar asked softly. The sympathy in his tone sounded genuine, and for all I knew, it was. “Who was going to pay the price for it?”

“No one!” the sailor choked out.

“Aged parents, vulnerable in their twilight years?” Balthasar speculated. “A younger brother who fell in with a bad crowd? No?” He tapped the table with the hilt of his knife, thinking. “The wife and children?”

Durel flinched as though he’d been struck, tears filling his eyes and spilling down his cheeks. Kushiel’s mercy, indeed. Somewhere, I thought I heard the sound of bronze wings clashing.

“Ah. And there we have it.” Balthasar Shahrizai laid down the knife and whetstone, folding his hands atop the table. His handsome face was solemn and stern, and the air in the wardroom was thick with the barbed coils of his gift. “Edouard Durel, I speak for mighty Kushiel himself when I tell you that there is only one way to protect your loved ones from the consequences of your actions. Will you make your confession?”

It was not a pretty sight.

The sailor Edouard Durel broke into ragged, anguished sobs, his
broad shoulders heaving. Between sobs he stammered out a tale of having fallen deep into debt after returning from the ill-fated voyage to Terra Nova, drowning his sorrows and wagering at Bryony House. He’d wagered and lost everything in his possession in a matter of days, even down to the roof above his wife and six-year-old daughter’s head.

And when it came to matters of finance, Bryony House was merciless.

At some point during the fellow’s confession, Balthasar mimed for Denis to cut his bonds and bring a bottle of brandy. He poured a generous glass, pushing it across the table. “Who approached you? Was it Duc Rogier?”

Edouard Durel downed the brandy and shook his head. “His wife, with that eldest son of theirs in tow.” He shuddered. “Hateful lad.”

I quite agreed.

Balthasar refilled the glass. “So she offered to make good on your debt in exchange for your compliance?”

“Aye,” he said wearily. “She promised they’d never want for aught for the rest of their lives, that they’d live like peers of the realm so long as I did what she asked and never, ever spoke a word of the matter.” He rubbed at his tears. “I thought… I thought there was a chance we’d live through this. Captain Rousse is one of the most resourceful sailors I’ve ever known. He might have found a way to plot a course homeward.”