The Emerald Storm (8 page)

“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 Mister Temple.”

“What’s this here?” asked a short, heavyset man with worn 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 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 examining 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 ’afore? 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, Mister 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, Mister Temple.”

He 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 corrected.

“Yeah.”

“You mean
aye
.”

Hadrian sighed and gave up.

The master did not notice as he 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 I have Lieutenant Bishop’s permission to get under way.”

Mister Temple moved toward the quarterdeck, and Wyatt slid down the stair rail to Royce’s side. “Remember what I taught you last night…and what Temple said. You don’t need to beat Derning.”

Hadrian clapped Royce on the back, grinning. “So, the idea is to just free the sail and get back down alive.”

Royce nodded and looked apprehensively up at the towering mast before him.

“Not afraid of heights, I hope.” Wyatt grinned.

“All right, gentlemen!” Mister Temple shouted, addressing the crew from his new position on the quarterdeck. “We’re having a contest.” He explained the details of the event to the crew as Royce and Jacob moved to the base of the mainsail. Royce looked up with a grimace that drew laughter from the rest.

“Seriously, he isn’t a gentd of heights, is he?” Wyatt asked, looking concerned. “I mean, it looks scary, and well—okay, it is the first few times you go aloft, but it really isn’t that hard if you’re careful and aren’t afraid of heights.”

Hadrian grinned at Wyatt, but all he said was, “I think you’re going to like this.”

An officer appeared on the quarterdeck and stood beside the master. “You may set sail, Mister Temple.”

The master turned to the main deck and roared, “Loose the topsail!”

Royce appeared caught by surprise, not realizing this was the order to begin the competition, and as a result, Jacob got the jump on him, racing up the ratlines like a monkey. Royce turned but did not begin climbing. Instead, he watched Jacob’s ascent for several seconds. The majority of the crew rooted for Jacob, but a few, perhaps those that heard they would win a ship’s cook if the stranger won, urged Royce to get climbing and called to him like a dog, “Go on, boy! Climb, you damn fool!” Some laughed, and a few made disparaging comments about his mother.

Royce finally seemed to work something out in his head and leapt to the task. He sprang, clearing the deck by several feet, and began to run, rather than climb, up the ratlines. It appeared as if Royce was defying gravity as he pumped his legs up the netting, showing no more difficulty than if he were running up a staircase. By the time he reached the futtock shrouds, he had nearly caught up to Jacob. This was webbing that extended away from the mast, reaching toward the small wooden platform known as the masthead. Both men were forced to hang upside down using the ratlines, and without the ability to go no-handed, Royce lost momentum.

Jacob swung around the masthead and jumped to the topmast shroud, where he ascended rapidly once more, in monkey form. By the time Royce cleared the masthead, he was well behind Derning. He made up time when he could once again advance without crawling inverted. They reached the yard together and both ran out along the top of the narrow beam like circus performers. Seeing them balance a hundred feet above the deck drew gasps from some of the crew, who gaped in amazement. Royce stopped, pivoting to watch his opponent. Derning threw himself down across the yard lying on his belly. He reached below for the gaskets to free the buntlines. Royce quickly imitated him, and together they worked their way across the arm. As they did, the sail came free, revealing its bright white face and dark green crown. It spilled down, whipping in the wind. Royce and Jacob lifted themselves back to their feet and moved to the end of the beam. They each grabbed the brace, the rope connected to the far end of the yardarm, and slid to the deck with the cheers of the crew in their ears. The two touched down together.

Mister Temple shouted to restore order over the unruly crew. It did not matter who had won. The skillful display by both men was impressive enough to earn their approval. Even Hadrian found himself clapping, and he noticed Wyatt was staring with his mouth slightly open. Temple nodded at Hadrian and Wyatt.

“Stand by at the capstan!” Lieutenant Bishop shouted, returning order. “Loose the heads’ls, hands aloft, loose the tops’ls fore and aft!”

The crew scattered to their duties. A ring of men surrounded the wooden spoke wheel of the capstan, ready to raise the anchor. Wyatt moved quickly toward the ship’s helm while the rest, Jacob included, climbed the shrouds of the three masts.

“An’ what are you two waiting for?” Mister Temple asked after Hadrian joined Royce. “You heard the lieutenant—get those sails loosed. Hadrian, take station at the capstan.”

As they trotted to their duties Mister Temple gestured in Royce’s direction and remarked to Wyatt, “No wonder he doesn’t have rough hands, he doesn’t use them!”

The ship’s captain appeared on the quarterdeck. He stood beside the lieutenant, his hands clasped behind his back, chestst out, and chin set against the salty wind that tugged at the edges of his uniform. Of slightly less than average height, he seemed the opposite of the lieutenant. While Mister Bishop was tall and thin, the captain was plump, with a double chin and long hanging cheeks, which quickly flushed red with the wind. He watched the progress of the crew and then nodded to his first officer.

“Take her out, Mister Bishop.”

“Raise anchor!” Bishop bellowed. “Wheel hard over!”

Hadrian found a place among those at the capstan and pushed against the wooden spokes, rotating the large spool that lifted the anchor from the bottom of the harbor. With the anchor broken out, the wheel hard over, and the forecastle hands drawing at the headsail sheets, the
Emerald Storm
brought her bow around. As she gained steerage, she moved away from the dock and into the clear of the main channel, and the rigging crew dropped the remaining sails. The great canvasses quivered and flapped, snapping in the wind like three violent white beasts.

“Hands to the braces!” Mister Temple barked, and the men took hold of the ropes, pulling the yards around until they caught the wind. The sails plumed full as the sea breeze stretched them taut, and Hadrian could feel the deck lurch beneath his feet as the
Emerald Storm
slipped forward through the water, rudder balanced against sail-pressure.

They traveled down the coast, passing farmers and workers who paused briefly to look at the handsome vessel flying by. At the helm, Wyatt spun the wheel steering steadily out to sea. The men on the braces trimmed the yards so not a sail fluttered and sending the ship dashing through the waves as she raced from shore.

“Course sou’east by south, sir,” Wyatt updated Temple, who repeated the statement to the lieutenant, who repeated it to the captain, who in turn nodded his approval.

The men at the capstan dispersed, leaving Hadrian looking around for something to do. Royce descended to the deck beside him, neither one certain of his duty now that the ship was under way. It did not matter much as the lieutenant, the captain, and Temple were all busy on the quarterdeck. The other hands moved casually now, cleaning up the rigging, finishing the job of stowing the supplies, and generally settling in.

“Why didn’t we ever consider sailing?” Hadrian asked Royce as he moved to the side and faced the wind. “When we were trying to find new professions, that is.” He took a deep, satisfying breath and smiled. “This is nice. A lot better than a sweaty, fly-plagued horse—and look at the land go by! How fast do you think we’re going?”

“The fact that we’re trapped here, with no chance of retreat except into the ocean, doesn’t bother you?”

Hadrian glanced over the side at the heaving waves. “Well, not until now. Why do you always have to ruin everything? Couldn’t you let me enjoy the moment?”

“You know me, just trying to keep things in perspective.”

“Our course is south, southeast. Any clue where we might be going?”

Royce shook his head. “It only means we aren’t invading Melengar, but we could be headed just about anyplace else.”

Someone arriving deck side caught his attention, “Who’s this now?”

A man in red and black appeared from below and climbed the stair to the quarterdeck. He stood out from the rest of the crew by virtue of his pale skin and silken vestments, which were far too elegant for the setting and whipped about like streamers at a fair. He moved hunched over, his slumped shoulders reminded Hadrian of a crow shuffling along a branch. He sported a mustache and short goatee. His dark hair, combed back, emphasized a dramatically receding hairline.

“Broken-crown crest,” Hadrian noted. “Seret.”

“Red cassock,” Royce added. “Sentinel.”

“At least he’s not Luis Guy. It’d be pretty hard to hide on a ship this size.”

“If it was Guy,” Royce smiledue of kedly, “we wouldn’t need to hide.”

Hadrian noticed Royce’s glance over the side of the ship at the water that foamed and churned as it rushed past.

“If a sentinel is on board,” Royce continued, “we can assume there are seret as well. They never travel alone.”

“Maybe below.”

“Maybe disguised in the crew,” Royce cautioned.

To starboard, a sailor dropped his burden on the deck and wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag. Noticing them standing idle, he walked over.

“Yer good,” he said to Royce. “No man’s beaten Jacob aloft ’afore.”

The sailor was tan and thin, with a tattoo of a woman on his forearm and a ring of silver in his ear.

“I didn’t beat him. We landed together,” Royce corrected.

“Aye, clever that. My name’s Grady. What do they call you?”

“Royce, and this is Hadrian.”

“Oh, yeah, the cook.” Grady looked at the thief studying him. “Royce, huh? I’m surprised I haven’t heard yer name ’afore. With skills like you got, I woulda figured you’d be famous. What ships ’ave you served on?”

“None around these waters,” Royce replied.

Grady looked at him curiously. “Where then? The Sound? Dagastan? The Sharon? Try me, I’ve been around a few places myself.”

“Sorry, I’m really bad at remembering names.”

Grady’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t remember the names of the ships you served on?”

“I would prefer not to discuss them.”

“Aye, consider the subject closed.” He looked at Hadrian. “You were with him then?”

“We’ve worked together for some time.”

Grady nodded. “Just forget I said anything. I won’t be getting in the way. You can bank money on Grady’s word, too.” The man winked, then walked away, glancing back over his shoulder at them a few times as he went off grinning.

“Seems like a nice sort,” Hadrian said. “Strange and confusing, but nice. You think he knows why we’re here?”

“Wish he did,” Royce replied, watching Grady resume his work. “Then he could tell us. Still, I’ve found that when hunting Merrick, stranger things have been known to happen. One thing’s for certain—this trip is going to be interesting.”

It was early, but Nimbus was already waiting outside the closed door of Amilia’s office with armloads of parchments. He smiled brightly at her approach. “Morning, Your Ladyship,” he greeted, with as much of a bow as he could manage without spilling his burden. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Amilia grunted in reply. She was not a morning person and today’s agenda held a meeting with Regent Saldur. If anything was likely to ruin a day, that would. She opened her office door with a key kept on a chain around her neck.