Rise Of Empire (58 page)

Royce looked back, concerned. “Did she recognize you?”

Hadrian nodded. “But she didn’t say anything. She just stared.”

“I guess if she was planning to arrest us, she’d have done it by now,” Royce said.

“Arrest us? This is Thrace we’re talking about, for Maribor’s sake.”

“They’ve had her for more than a year—she’s Empress Modina now.”

“Yeah, but …”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Hadrian said, remembering the look on Thrace’s face. “She doesn’t look well. I’m not sure what’s going on in the palace, but it’s not good. And I promised her father I’d look out for her.”

Royce shook his head in frustration. “Can we focus on one rescue at a time? For a man in retirement, you’re really busy. Besides, Theron’s idea of success was to get his eldest son a cooper’s shop. I think he
might
settle for his daughter being crowned empress. Now, let’s get rid of these horses and make our way down to the wharf. We need to find the
Emerald Storm.”

w
hile not as large or as wealthy as Colnora, the imperial capital of Aquesta was the most powerful city in Avryn. The palace dated back to before the age of Glenmorgan and had originally been a governor’s residence in the ancient days of the Novronian Empire. Scholars pointed to the gray rock of the castle’s foundation with pride and boasted about how imperial engineers from Percepliquis had laid it. Here, at Highcourt Fields, great tournaments were held each Winter-tide. The best knights from all of Apeladorn arrived to compete in jousting, fencing, and other contests of skill. These weeklong events included an ongoing feast for the nobles and provided healthy revenue for the merchants, who showed their wares along the streets. The city became a carnival of sights and sounds that attracted visitors for hundreds of miles.

Much of Aquesta’s economic success came from possessing the largest and busiest saltwater port in Avryn. The docks were awash with all manner of sailing watercraft. Brigs, trawlers, grain ships, merchant vessels, and warships all anchored in its harbor. To the south lay the massive shipyard, along with rope, net, and sail manufacturers. The northern end of the bay held the wharf and its fish houses, livestock pens, lumberyards,
and tar boilers. All the industries of the sea and seafaring were represented.

“Which one is the
Emerald Storm?”
Hadrian asked, looking at the forest of masts and rigging that lined the docks.

“Let’s try asking at the information office.” Royce hooked his thumb at a tavern perched on the edge of the dock. The wooden walls were bleached white with salt, and the clapboards were warped like ocean waves. The door hung askew off leather hinges, and above it, a weathered sign in the shape of a fish announced
THE SALTY MACKEREL.

The tavern had few windows, leaving the interior dim and smoky. Each tiny table had a melted candle, and a weak fire smoldered in a round brick hearth in the center of the room. Men, dressed in loose trousers, long checkered shirts, and wide-brimmed hats with glossy tops, packed the place. Many sat with pipes in their mouths and their feet on tables. Some stood leaning against posts. All heads turned when Hadrian and Royce entered, and Hadrian realized just how much they stood out in their tunics and cloaks.

“Hello.” Hadrian smiled as he struggled to close the door. The wind whistled through and snuffed out the three candles nearest them. “Sorry, could use some better hinges.”

“Iron hinges rust overnight here,” the bartender said. The thin, crooked man wiped the counter with one hand while gathering empty mugs in the other. “What do you two want?”

“Looking for the
Emerald Storm.”
Royce spoke up.

Neither took more than a step inside. None of the haggard faces looked friendly, and Hadrian liked the comfort of a nearby exit.

“Whatcha want with it?” another man asked.

“We heard it was a good ship, and we were wondering if there are any openings for sailors.”

This brought a riotous round of laughter.

“And where be these sailors who be looking fer a job?” another voice bellowed from within the murky haze. “Certainly not two sand crabs like you.”

More laughter.

“So what you’re saying is you don’t know anything about the
Emerald Storm.
Is that right?” Royce returned in a cutting tone that quieted the room.

“The
Storm
is an imperial ship, lad,” the crooked man told them, “and it’s all pressed up. They’re only taking seasoned salts now—if there’s any room left at all.”

“If yer looking fer work, the fishery always needs gutters. That’s about as close to seafaring work as is likely for you two.”

Once more the room filled with boisterous laughter.

Hadrian looked at Royce, who shoved the door open and, with a scowl, stepped outside. “Thanks for the advice,” Hadrian told everyone before following his partner.

They sat on the Mackerel’s steps, staring at the line of ships across the street. Spires of wood draped with tethered cloth looked like ladies getting dressed for a ball. Hadrian wondered if that was why they always referred to ships as women.

“What now?” he asked softly.

Royce sat hunched with his chin on his hands. “Thinking,” was all he said.

Behind them the door scraped open, and the first thing Hadrian noticed was a wide-brimmed hat with one side pinned up by a lavish blue plume.

The face beneath the hat was familiar, and Royce recognized the man immediately. “Wyatt Deminthal.”

Wyatt hesitated as he locked eyes with Royce. He stood with one foot still inside. He did not look surprised to see them, but seemed to be merely questioning the wisdom of advancing, like a child who approached a dog that had unexpectedly
growled. For a heartbeat no one said a word, and then Wyatt gritted his teeth and pulled the door shut behind him.

“I can get you on the
Storm,”
he said quickly.

Royce narrowed his eyes. “How?”

“I’m the helmsman. They’re short a cook and can always use another topman. She’s ready to sail as soon as a shipment from the palace arrives.”

“Why?”

Wyatt swallowed, and his hand absently drifted to his throat. “I know you saw me. You’re here to collect, but I don’t have the money I owe. Setting you up in Medford was nothing personal. We were starving, and Trumbul paid gold. I didn’t know they were going to arrest you for the king’s murder. I was just hiring you to steal the sword—that’s all. A hundred gold tenents is a lot of money. And honestly—well, I’ve never saved that much in my life and I doubt I ever will.”

“So you think getting us on the
Emerald Storm
is worth a hundred gold?”

Wyatt licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “I don’t know … is it?”

Royce and Hadrian crossed the busy street, dodging carts, and stepped onto weathered decking suspended by ropes. The boards bobbed and weaved beneath their feet. The two were dressed in loose-fitting duck-trousers, oversized linen shirts, tarpaulin hats with a bit of ribbon, and neckerchiefs tied in some arcane way that Wyatt had fussed with for some time to get right. They both carried large, heavy cloth seabags, in which they stowed their old clothes and Hadrian hid his three swords. Being unarmed left him feeling off balance and naked.

They snaked through the crowded dock, following Wyatt’s directions to the end of the pier. The
Emerald Storm
was a smart-looking, freshly painted ship, with three masts, four decks, and the figurehead of a golden winged woman ornamenting the bow. Its sails were furled, and green pennants flew from each mast. A small army of men hoisted bags of flour and barrels of salted pork onto the deck, where the crew stowed the supplies. Shouts came from what appeared to be an officer, who directed the work, and another man, who enforced the orders with a stout rattan cane. Two imperial soldiers guarded the ramp.

“Do you have business here?” one asked at their approach.

“Yeah,” Hadrian replied with an innocent, hopeful tone. “We’re looking for work. Heard this ship was short on hands. We were told to speak with Mr. Temple.”

“What’s this here?” asked a short, heavyset man with threadbare clothes, bushy eyebrows, and a gruff voice worn to gravel from years of yelling in the salt air. “I’m Temple.”

“Word is you’re looking to put on a cook,” Hadrian said pleasantly.

“We are.”

“Well then, this is your lucky day.”

“Ah-huh.” Temple nodded with a sour look.

“And my friend here is an able—ah—topman.”

“Oh, he is, is he?” Temple eyed Royce. “We have openings, but only for
experienced
sailors. Normally, I’d be happy to take on green men, but we can’t afford any more landlubbers on this trip.”

“But we are sailors—served on the
Endeavor.”

“Are you, now?” the ship’s master asked skeptically. “Let me see yer hands.”

The master examined Hadrian’s palms, looking over the various calluses and rough places while grunting occasionally.
“You must have spent most of your time in the galley. You’ve not done any serious rope work.” He examined Royce’s hands and raised an eyebrow at him. “Have you
ever
been on a ship before? It’s certain you’ve never handled a sheet or a capstan.”

“Royce here is a—you know—” Hadrian pointed up at the ship’s rigging. “The guy who goes up there.”

The master shook his head and laughed. “If you two are seamen, then I’m the Prince of Percepliquis!”

“Oh, but they are, Mr. Temple,” a voice declared. Wyatt exited the forecastle and came jogging toward them. A bright white shirt offset his tawny skin and black hair. “I know these men, old mates of mine. The little one is Royce Melborn, as fine a topman as they come. And the big one is, ah …”

“Hadrian.” Royce spoke up.

“Right, of course. Hadrian’s a fine cook—he is, Mr. Temple.”

Temple pointed toward Royce. “This one’s a topman? Are you joking, Wyatt?”

“No, sir, he’s one of the best.”

Temple looked unconvinced.

“You can have him prove it to you, sir,” Hadrian offered. “You could have him race your best up the ropes.”

“You mean up the
shrouds,”
Wyatt said, correcting him.

“Yeah.”

“You mean
aye.”

Hadrian sighed and gave up.

The master did not notice as he had been focused on Royce. He sized him up, then shouted, “Derning!” His strong, raspy voice carried well against the ocean wind. Immediately, a tall, thin fellow with leathery skin jogged over.

“Aye, sir?” he responded respectfully.

“This fellow says he can beat you in a race to loose the topsail and back. What do you think?”

“I think he’s mistaken, sir.”

“Well, we’ll find out.” The master turned back to Royce. “I don’t actually expect you to beat Derning. Jacob here is one of the best topmen I’ve seen, but if you put in a good showing, the two of you will have jobs aboard. If it turns out you’re wasting my time, well, you’ll be swimming back. Derning, you take starboard. Royce, you have port. We’ll begin after Lieutenant Bishop gives permission for us to get under way.”