The Emerald Storm (10 page)

“I know,” Modina said, her eyes still closed and head tilted upward. Immersed in the daylight she almost appeared to glow. “But I won’t let them hurt you.”

The words took a moment to register with Amilia. She heard them clearly enough, but their meaning came so unexpectedly that she sat on the bed without realizing. Looking back it was obvious, but not until that moment did she see it. The speech was for Amilia’s benefit—to ensure that Ethelred and Saldur could not have her removed or killed. Few people had ever gone out of their way for Amilia. It was unimaginable for Modina—the crazy empress—to risk herself in this way. Such an event was as likely as the wind changing direction to suit her, or the sun asking her permission to shine.

“Thank you,” was all she could think to say and for the first time she felt awkward in Modina’s presence. “I’m going to go now.”

She headed for the door and as her hand touched the latch, Modina spoke again.

“It isn’t completely an act, you know.”

Waiting inside the regent’s office, Amilia realized she had not heard a word in her meeting or during the dedication that morning. Dumbfounded by her conversation with Modina—the mere fact that she even had a conversation with Modina—little else registered. Her distraction, however, vanished the instant Saldur arrived.

The regent appeared imposing as always, in his elegant robe and cape of purple and black. His white hair and lined face lent him a grandfatherly appearance, but his eyes held no warmth.

“Afternoon, Amilia,” he said, walking past her and taking a seat at his desk. The regent’s office was dramatically opulent. Five times larger than her office, it featured a more elegant decor. A fine patterned rug covered the polished hardwood, and numerous end-tables flanked couches and armchairs circling a table and chessboard. The fireplace was an impressively wide hearth of finely chiseled marble. There were decanters of spirits on the shelves, along with thick books. Religiously themed paintings lined the spaces between the bookcases and windows. One illustrated the familiar scene of Maribor anointing Novron. The immense desk, behind which Saldur sat, was a dark mahogany polished to a fine luster and adorned with a bouquet of fresh flowers. The entire office was perfumed with the heady scent of incense, the kind Amilia had only smelled once before in a cathedral.

“Your Grace,” Amilia replied, respectfully.

“Sit down, my dear,” Saldur said.

Amilia found a chair and mechanically sat. Every muscle in her body was tense. Amilia wished Modina had not spoken to her that morning—at least then she could honestly plead innocence. Amilia was no good at lying, and had no idea how she should respond to Saldur’s interrogation in order to bring the least amount of punishment to her and the empress. She was still debating what she might say when Saldur spoke.

“I have some news for you,” he said, folding his hands on the surface of the desk and leaning forward. “It will not be public for several weeks, but you need to know now so you can begin preparations. I want you to keep this to yourself until I announce it, do you understand?”

Amilia nodded as if she understood.

“In almost four months, during the Wintertide celebrations, Modina will marry Regent Ethelred. I don’t think I need to impress upon you the importance of this. The Patriarch himself is personally coming to perform the ceremony. All eyes will be on this palace…and on the empress.”

Amilia said nothing and barely managed another shallow nod.

“It is your charge to ensure that nothing embarrassing occurs. I have been very pleased with your work to date, and as a result, I am giving you an opportunity to excel further. I am putting
you
in charge of arranging the ceremony. It will be your responsibility to develop a guest list and prepare invitations. Go to the lord chamberlain for help with that. You will also need to coordinate with the palace cooks for meals. I understand you have a good relationship with the head cook?”

Once more she nodded.

“Wonderful. There should be decorations, entertainment—music certainly, and perhaps a magician or an acrobat. The ceremony will take place here, in the Great Hall. That should make things a bit easier for you. You will also need to have a wedding dress made—one worthy of the empress.” Seeing the tension on her face Saldur added, “Relax, Amilia, at least this time you only need to train her to say two words…
‘I do.’
”

As the ship lurched once more Hadrian stumbled and nearly hit his head on the overhead beam. It would have been his third time that day. The lower decks of the
Emerald Storm
provided meager headroom and precious little light. An obstacle course of sea chests, ditty bags, crude wooden benches, tables that swung from ropes, and close to one hundred and thirty men all crammed into the berth deck. Hadrian staggered his way aft dodging the majority of the starboard watch, most of whom were asleep, swaying in hammocks strung from the same thick wooden crossbeams that Hadrian had nearly cracked his skull on. It was not merely the clutter or the shifting of the ship that made Hadrian stagger. He had been feeling nauseated since sunset.

The
Emerald Storm
had been at sea for nearly fifteen hours and the enigma of life aboard ship was slowly revealing itself. Hadrian had spent many years in the company of professional soldiers and recognized that each branch of the military held its own jargon, traditions, and idiosyncrasies, but he had never set foot on a ship. He knew he could be certain of only two things. He had a lot of learning to do and little time to do it.

He had already picked up several important facts, such as where you relieved yourself which, to his surprise, was at the head of the ship. A precarious experience as he had to hang out over the sea at the base of the bowsprit. This might be second nature to sailors, and easy for Royce, but it gave Hadrian pause.

Another highly useful bit of information was at least a cursory understanding about the chain of command. It was easy to see that there were officers&mdashnoblemen mostly—and skilled tradesmen, who held a higher rank than the general seamen, but Hadrian could also tell there was a sub-stratum within these broad classes. There were different ranks of officers and even more subtle levels of seniority, influence, and jurisdiction. He could not expect to penetrate such a complex hierarchy on his first day. All he managed to determine with any clarity was that the boatswain and his mates where the ones charged with making sure the seamen did their jobs. They were quite persuasive with their short rope whips and kept a keen eye on the crew at all times. As such, they were the ones he watched carefully.

The ship’s crew divided into two watches, and while one worked the ship, the other rested, slept, or ate. Lieutenant Bishop placed Royce on the starboard watch assigned to the maintop. His job was to work the rigging on the main or center mast. This put him under boatswain Bristol Bennet and his three mates. Hadrian had seen their like before. Drunks, vagrants, and thugs, they would never have amounted to much on land, but aboard ship they held power and status. This chance to repay others for their mistreatment made them cruel and quick to punish. Hadrian still waited to discover his watch assignment, but he hoped it would be the same as Royce.

He had been lucky so far. This being the first day out, meals had been little more than placing out fresh foods from the recent stay at port. Fruit, fresh bread, and unsalted cooked meats were merely handed out with no actual cooking required. Consequently, Hadrian’s talents remained untested, but time was running out. He knew how to cook, of course. He had prepared meals for years using little more than a campfire, but that had mainly been for himself and Royce. He didn’t know how to cook for an entire ship’s crew. Needing to find out exactly what they expected drove him to wander in hopes of finding Wyatt.

“The Princess of Melengar rules there now,” Hadrian heard a young lad say.

He didn’t look to be much more than sixteen. A waif of a boy with thin whiskers, freckles darkened by days in the sun, and curly hair cut in a bowl-like fashion except for a short ponytail he tied with a black chord. He sat with Wyatt, Grady, and a few other men around a swaying table illuminated by a candle melted to the center of a copper plate. They were playing cards and the giant shadows they cast only made Hadrian’s approach more disorienting.

“She doesn’t rule Ratibor, she’s the mayor,” Wyatt corrected the boy as he laid a card on the pile before him.

“What’s the difference?”

“She was appointed, lad.”

“What’s that mean?” the boy asked, as he tried to decide which card to play, holding his hand so tight to his chest he could barely see them himself.

“It means she didn’t just take over, the people of the city
asked
her to run things.”

“But she can still execute people, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Sounds like a ruler to me.” The boy laid a card with a wide grin indicating that at least he thought it was a surprisingly good play.

“Sounds like them people of Ratibor are dumb as dirt,” Grady said, gruffly. His expression betrayed his irritation at the boy’s discard. “They finally get the yoke off their backs and right away they ask for a new one.”

“Grady!” said a man with a white kerchief on his head. “I’m from Ratibor, you oaf!”

“Exactly! Thanks for proving me point, Bernie,” Grady replied, slamming his play on the table so hard several surrounding seamen groaned in their hammocks. Grady laughed at his own joke and the rest at the table chuckled good-naturedly, except Bernie from Ratibor.

“Hadrian!” Wyatt greeted him warmly as the new cook staggered up to them like a drunk. “We were just talking about land affairs. Most of these poor sods haven’t been ashore in over a year and we were filling them in on the news about the war.”

“Which has beenbloody cracking, seeing as how we didn’t even know there was one,” Grady said, feigning indignation.

“We were just in dock though,” Hadrian said. “I would have thought—”

“That don’t mean nuttin’,” one of the other men said. With next to no hair and few teeth, he appeared to be the oldest at the table and possibly the entire ship. He had a silver earring that glinted with the candlelight, a tattoo of a mermaid that wrapped around his forearm, and he, too, wore a white kerchief on his head. “Most of this ’ere crew is pressed. The captain would be barmy to let them touch solid ground in a port. He and Mister Bishop would be the only ones left to rig her!”

This brought a round of laughter and garnered irritated growls from those trying to sleep.

“You don’t look so good,” Wyatt mentioned to Hadrian.

He shook his head miserably. Looking around at the others and said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a ship. Does the
Storm
always rock so much?”

“Hmm?” Wyatt glanced at him then laughed. “This? This here is nothing. You won’t even notice it in a day or so.” He watched the next man at the table play his card. “We’re still in the sound. Wait until we hit the open sea. You might want to sit. You’re sweating.”

Hadrian touched his face and felt the moisture. “Funny, I feel chilled if anything.”

“Have a seat,” Wyatt said. “Poe, give him your spot.”

“Why me?” the young boy asked insulted.

“Because I said so.” Poe’s expression showed that was not enough for him to give up one of the limited places. “And because I am a quartermaster and you’re a seaman, but even more importantly, because Mister Bishop appointed you cook’s mate.”

“He did?” Poe asked and blinked, a smile crossing his face.

“Congratulations,” Wyatt said. “Now, you might want to make a good impression on your new boss and move your infernal arse!”

The boy promptly stood and pretended to clean the bench with an invisible duster. “After you, sir!” he said, with a bow and an exaggerated flourish.

“Does he know anything about cooking?” Hadrian asked dubiously, taking the seat.

“Sure, sure!” Poe declared exuberantly. “I know plenty. You just wait. I’ll show ya.”

“Good, I don’t feel up to working with food yet.” Hadrian let his head drop into his hands. The old man next to Wyatt tossed down his card and the whole group groaned in agony.

“You bloody bastard, Drew!” Grady barked at him, tossing what remained of his cards onto the pile. The others did the same.

Drew grinned, showing his few yellowed teeth, and collected the tiny pile of silver tenents. “That’s it for me, boys. Goodnight.”

“Night, Drew ya lousy Lanksteer!” Grady said, shooing him away as if he were a bug. “We can talk at breakfast, eh?”

“Sure, Grady,” Drew said. “Oh, that reminds me, I heard something right funny tonight when I was reefing the top’sl. We’re going to be taking on a passenger to help find the horn. How stupid are these landlubbers. It’s only the most well-known point on the Sharon! Anyway remind me at breakfast and I’ll tell ya about it. It’s a real hoot it is. Night now.”

Most of the rest of the men headed off, leaving just Wyatt, Grady, Poe and Hadrian.

“You should turn in as well,” Wyatt told Poe.

“I’m not tired,” he protested.

“I didn’t ask if you were tired, did I?”

“I want to stay up and celebrate my promotion.”

“Off with ya before I report you for disobeying a superior.”

Poe scowled and stomped off looking for his hammock.

“You too, Grady,” Wyatt told him.

The old seaman looked at Wyatt suspiciously, then leaned over and quietly asked, “Why you trying to get rid of me, Deminthal?”

“Because I’m tired of looking at that ugly scowl of yours, that’s why.”

“Codswallop!a he hissed. “You wanna be alone to talk about the you-know-what, don’t ya? Both of you are in on it. I can tell, and that Royce fellow he’s in too. How many more you got, Wyatt? Room for another? I’m pretty good in a fight.”

“Shut up, Grady,” Wyatt told him. “Talk like that can get you hanged.”

“Okay, okay,” Grady said, holding up his palms. “Just letting you know, that’s all.” He got up and headed for his own hammock casting glances back over his shoulder several times until he disappeared into the forest of swinging men.