The Emerald Storm (27 page)

The old man was more than just pale—he was white. His hair was the color of alabaster while his skin was little more than wrinkled quartz. He reminded Hadrian of an egg, colorless and fragile.

“I wanted to introduce myself.” Hadrian slipped fully inde. “All this time at sea and we never had the opportunity to properly meet. I thought that was unfortunate, don’t you?”

“Why, I—who are you again?”

“Hadrian, I was the cook on the
Emerald Storm
.”

“Ah, well, I hate to say it Hadrian, but I was not impressed with your cooking. Perhaps a little less salt and some wine would have helped. Not that this is any great feast,” he said, gesturing toward his half-eaten meal. “I am too old for such rich foods. It upsets my stomach.”

“What are you writing?”

“Oh, this? Just notes really. My mind isn’t what it once was, you see. I’ll forget everything soon and then where will I be? A historian who can’t remember his own name. It really could come to that, you know. Assuming I live that long. Bernie keeps reassuring me I won’t live out this trip. He’s probably right. He’s the expert on such things after all.”

“Really? What kind of things?”

“Oh, spelunking, of course. I’m told Bernie is an old hand at it. We make a good team he and I. He digs up the past and I put it down, so to speak.” Antun chuckled to himself until he coughed. Hadrian poured the man a glass of water, which he gratefully accepted.

After he had recovered, Hadrian asked, “Have you ever heard of a man called Merrick Marius?”

Bulard shook his head. “Not unless I have and then forgotten. Was he a king or a hero perhaps?”

“No, I actually thought he might have been the man who sent you here.”

“Oh, no. Our mandate is from the Patriarch himself, though Sentinel Thranic doesn’t tell me much. I’m not complaining mind you. How often does a priest of Maribor have the opportunity to serve the Patriarch? I can tell you precisely—twice. Once when I was so much younger, and now that I am nearly dead.”

“I thought you were a historian? You are also a priest?”

“I know I don’t look much like one, do I? My calling was the pen not the flock.”

“You’ve written books then?”

“Oh, yes, my best is still the
History of Apeladorn
, which I am constantly having to append, of course.”

“I know a monk at Windermere Abbey who’d love to meet you.”

“Is that up north near Melengar? I passed through there once about twenty years ago.” Antun nodded thoughtfully. “They were very helpful, saved my life if I recall correctly.”

“So, you’re on this trip to record what you see?”

“Oh, no, that’s only what I’ve been doing so far. As you can imagine, I don’t get out much. I do most of my work in libraries and stuffy cellars, reading old books. I was in Tur Del Fur before setting off on this wonderful trip. This has been an excellent opportunity to record what I see firsthand. The Patriarch knows about my research on ancient imperial history and that’s why I am here. Sort of a living, breathing version of my books, you see. I suppose they think if they put in the right questions, out will pop the correct answers, like an oracle.”

Hadrian was about to ask another question when Grady and Poe poked their heads in.

“Hadrian,” Poe caught his attention.

“Well, isn’t my tent the social center tonight,” Antun remarked.

“I’m kinda busy at the moment, can this wait?” Hadrian asked.

“I don’t think so. Thranic and Staul just followed Royce and Bernie into the jungle.”

Royce heard the click of the release and began to move even before the hiss of the string indicated the missile’s launch. Still his reflexes could not move faster than a flying bolt. The metal shaft pierced his side below the ribcage. The impact thrust him backward where he collapsed in pain.

“Lucky we found you, Bernie,” Thranic told the startled thief as he moved away from Royce’s body. “He would have killed you. Isn’t that what you said bucketmen do? Now, don’t you feel foolish for saying I couldn’t protect you?”

“You could have hit me!” Defoe snapped.

“Stop being so dramatic. You’re alive, aren’t you? Besides, I heard the conversation. It didn’t take much for you to give me up. In my profession, lack of faith is a terrible sin.”

“In mine, it is all too often justified,” Defoe snarled back.

“Get back to the camp before you’re missed.”

Defoe grumbled as he trotted back up the path and Thranic watched his retreat.

“We might have to do something about him,” the sentinel told the Tenkin. “Funny that you, my heathen friend, should be my stalwart ally in all this.”

“Bernie ’e dinks too much. Me? I am just greedy, and derefore trustworzy. We going to just leave dee body?”

“No, it’s too close to the path we’ll be taking tomorrow and I can’t count on the animals eating him before we break camp. Drag him away. A few yards should be enough.”

“Royce?” Hadrian shouted from behind them on the trail.

“Quickly, you idiot. They’re coming!”

Staul rushed forward and, planting his torch in the ground, lifted Royce and ran with him into the jungle. He only traveled a few dozen yards when he cursed.

Royce was still breathing.

“
Izuto!
” the Tenkin hissed, drawing his dagger.

“Too late,” Royce whispered.

Hadrian led them into the trees the way Royce went earlier. Ahead he spotted the glow of a torch and ran toward it. Behind him Wyatt, Poe, Grady, and Derning followed.

“There’s blood here,” Hadrian announced when he got to the burning torch thrust in the ground. “Royce!”

“Spread out!” Wyatt ordered. “Sweep the grass and look for more blood.”

“Over here!” Derning shouted, moving into the ferns. “There up ahead. Two of them, Staul and Royce!”

Hadrian cut his way through the thick undergrowth to where they lay. Royce was breathing hard, holding his blood-soaked side. His face was pale but his eyes remained focused.

“How ya doing, buddy?” Hadrian asked, dropping to his knees and carefully slipping an arm under Royce.

Royce didn’t say anything. He kept his teeth clenched, blowing his cheeks out with each breath.

“Get his feet, Wyatt,” Hadrian ordered. “Now lift him gently. Poe, get out front with the torch.”

“What about Staul?” Derning asked.

“What about him?” Hadrian glanced down at the big Tenkin whose throat lay open, slit from ear to ear.

When they returned to camp, Wesley ordered Royce taken to his tent, which was the largest and originally reserved for Captain Seward. He sent Poe for Doctor Levy, but Hadrian intervened. Wesley appeared confused but, as Royce was Hadrian’s best friend he did not dispute his wishes. The Vintu were surprisingly adept at first aid and under Hadrian’s watchful eye they cleaned and dressed the wound.

The bolt aimed at Royce’s heart had entered and exited cleanly. He suffered significant blood loss, but no organ damage, nor broken bones. The Vintu sealed the tiny entry hole without a problem. The larger tearing of his flesh at the exit was another matter. It took a dozen bandages and many basins of water before they got the bleeding under control and Royce lay calmly, sleeping.

“Why wasn’t I notified about this? I’m a physician for Maribor’s sake!”

Hadrian stepped outside the tent flap to find Levy arguing with Wyatt, Poe, Grady, and Derning who, at Hadrian’s request, guarded the entrance.

“Ah, Doctor Levy, just the man I wanted to see,” Hadrian addressed him. “Where’s your boss? Where’s Thranic?”

Levy did not need to answer as across the camp Thranic walked toward them, alongside Wesley and Defoe.

Hadrian drew his sword at their approach.

“Put away your weapon!” Wesley ordered.

“This man nearly killed Royce tonight,” Hadrian declared, pointing at Thranic.

“Thatens not the way he tells it,” Wesley replied. “He said Royce attacked and murdered Staul over accusations the Tenkin made about Royce killing Drew aboard the
Storm
. Thranic and Seaman Bernie claim they were witnesses.”

“We don’t
claim
anything, we saw it,” Thranic said, coolly.

“And how do you
claim
this took place?” Hadrian asked.

“Staul confronted Royce, telling him he was going to Wesley with evidence. Royce warned him that he would never live to see the dawn. Then when Staul turned to walk back to camp, Royce grabbed him from behind and slit his throat. Bernie and I expected such treachery from him, but we couldn’t convince Staul not to confront the blackguard. So, we followed. I brought a crossbow, borrowed from Mister Dilladrum’s supplies, for protection. I fired in self-defense.”

“He’s lying,” Hadrian declared.

“Oh, were you there?” Thranic asked. “Did you see it happen as we did? Funny I didn’t notice your presence.”

“Royce left the camp with Bernie not Staul,” Hadrian said.

Thranic laughed. “Is that the best you can come up with to save your friend from a noose? Why not say you saw Staul attack him unprovoked, or me for that matter?”

“I saw Royce leave with Bernie, too, and Thranic and Staul followed after them,” Wyatt put in.

“That’s a lie!” Defoe responded, convincingly offended. “I watched Royce leave with Staul. Thranic and I followed. I worked the topmast with Royce, I know him better than anyone here. I was there the night Edgar Drew died. Royce was the only one near him. They were having an argument. You all saw how agile he is. Drew never had a chance.”

“Why didn’t you report it to the captain?” Derning asked.

“I did,” Defoe declared. “But because I didn’t actually see him push poor Drew off, he refused to do anything.”

“How convenient that Captain Seward is too dead to ask about that,” Wyatt pointed out.

Thranic shook his head with a pitiful smile, “Now, Wesley, will you actually take the word of a pirate and a cook over the word of a Sentinel of the Nyphron Church?”

“Your Excellency,” Wesley said, turning to face Thranic. “You will address me as
Mister
Wesley or
sir
, is that understood?” Thranic’s expression soured. “And
I
will decide whose word I will accept. As it happens, I am well aware of your personal vendetta against Royce Melborn. Midshipman Beryl tried to convince me to bring false charges. Well, sir, I did not buckle to Beryl’s threats, and I’ll be damned if I will be intimidated by your title.”

“Damned is a very good choice of words,
Mister
Wesley.”

“Sentinel Thranic,” Wesley barked at him. “Be forewarned that if any further harm befalls Seaman Melborn, that is even remotely suspicious, I will hold you responsible and have you executed by whatever means are at hand. Do I make myself clear?”

“You wouldn’t dare touch an ordained officer of the Patriarch. Every king in Avryn—why the regents themselves would not oppose me. It is you who should be concerned about execution.”

Wyatt, Grady, and Derning drew their blades and Hadrian took a step closer to Thranic.

“Stand down, gentlemen!” Wesley shouted. At his order, they paused. “You are quite correct, Sentinel Thranic, that your office influences how I treat you. Were you an ordinary seaman, I would order you flogged for your disrespect. I am well aware that upon our return to Aquesta, you could ruin my career or perhaps have me imprisoned or hanged. But let me point out, sir, that Aquesta is a long way from here and a dead man has difficulty requesting anything. It would be in my best interest, therefore, to see you executed here and now. It would be a simple matter to report you and Seaman Bernie lost to the dangers of the jungle.”

Defoe looked worried and took a subtle step away from Thranic’s side.

“I would have thought I could rely on your family’s famous code of honor,” Thranic said in a sarcastic tone.

“You can, sir, and you are, as indeed that is all that keeps you alive at this moment. It is also what you can count on to have you executed should you threaten Seaman Melborn again. Do I make myself clear?”

Thranic fumed but said nothing. He simply turned and walked away with Defoe following after.

Wesley exhaled loudly, and straightened his vest. “How is he doing?” he asked Hadrian.

“Sleeping at the moment, sir. He’s weak, but should recover. And thank you, sir.”

“For what?” Wesley replied. “I have a mission to accomplish, Blackwater. I can’t have my crew killing one another. Derning, Grady, take a few others and bring Staul’s body back to camp. Let’s not leave him to the beasts of this foul jungle.”

“I think I saw him.”

Arista woke at the sound. Disorie
nted, she did not know where she was at first. Turning over, she found Thrace in a small streak of moonlight. The empress was dressed in her wispy thin nightgown that fluttered in the draft. She stood straight, hair loose, eyes lost to a vision beyond the window’s frame.

It had been nearly a week since Gerald invited Arista to the empress’s bedroom and she wondered if this was a sign she was on the right path. If fate could speak, surely this is how it would sound.

Thrace saw to her safety, guarding her like the mother of a newborn. Soldiers stood outside her door at all times, now in pairs with strict orders to prevent the entry of anyone without permission. Only Amilia and Nimbus ever entered the chamber and even they knocked, something Arista inferred was a new development. At her urging, Thrace ordered Nimbus to carry messages to Hilfred.

In her nightgown, Thrace looked almost like the girl from Dahlgren, but there was something different about her—akin to sadness yet lacking even the passion for that. Often she would sit and stare at nothing for hours and when she spoke, her words were dull and emotionless. She never laughed, cried, or smiled. In this way, she appeared to have successfully transformed from a lively peasant girl into a true empress—serene and unflappable. Yet at what cost?

“It was late like this,” Thrace said, looking out the window. Her voice sounded disconnected, as if in a trance. “I was having a dream, but a squeaking noise woke me. I came to the window and I saw them. They were in the courtyard below. Men with torches, as many as a dozen and they wheeled a sealed wagon. The men were knights, dressed in black and scarlet armor like those we saw in Dahlgren. They spoke of the man inside the box as if he was a monster, and even though he was hooded and chained they were afraid. After taking him away, the wagon rolled back out of the courtyard.” Thrace turned to face her. “I thought it was a dream until just now. I have a lot of unpleasant dreams.”