The Farthest Shore (Eden Series Book 3) (3 page)

That was another thorn driven deep into Jash’s flesh. She longed for pieces or plans of what exactly propelled the new mainlander ships, the ones that needed no sails, but so far none of her spies on the mainland had obeyed her orders in that regard.

Hewl leaned forward. He was a southerner from distant Shadow Isle, where people’s extremities turned a deep brownish-black when they came of age. Hewl looked as though he was wearing a mask that extended to his ears, and dark gloves on his hands. Those hands curled into fists.

“But only three of them around Anthracite now,” he said. “Commander, we should attack. If we seize even one, we can strip it down to
its
bones, make the mainlanders tell us how to build more—”

“Don’t be a fool.”

The cool quiet voice came from the other end of the table, where Daxen Luliok was sprawled in his chair. He slumped lower than everyone else at the table, but Jash thought that was a deliberate disguise for his height. Turning his goblet as if to study the play of light on its surface, he finally looked up to meet Hewl’s stare.

“And you would be a fool if you attacked.” His voice was lazy too, as if he didn’t notice the way Hewl’s fingers twitched. “They’ve had more than enough time to secure Anthracite and plan their defenses.”

Jash didn’t trust Daxen, because she had a suspicion he’d drowned his former captain, and even if that man had been a drunken sot, murder was murder. But at least he would never let a need for glory or even revenge prod him into stupidity.

“Besides, we don’t need any of their ships.” He reached for a chunk of bread. “Mainlander travesties. They don’t even have sails.”

“What do you say we should do then?” Jash spoke calmly, because it was possible he might have some idea she hadn’t thought of, but he shrugged, dipped the bread into honey sauce and ate it before he continued.

“We have our own ways,” he said. “Our own methods and devices. Why do we need anything from them?”

“Because our science isn’t winning the war.” Kier Safrage, the captain of
Needledance
, turned to her with one hand raised. “No offense meant, Commander. I know of your achievement with brain coral.”

Jash nodded. No one needed to thank her for that; she’d done it for the islands, even if she was reluctant to take such a risk again. But Kier had a point. The mainlanders could never match Turean science, but that science was all to do with living things. The Tureans had a natural affinity for reshaping flesh, growing it where it did not exist, coaxing it into new forms.

What they did not have was a similar talent for the unliving, for making intuitive leaps that turned metal and glass into strange new creations. Once she had dredged up the fragments of a new kind of Denalait vessel sent secretly into the Iron Ocean and had taken them to Scorpitale. It had taken all their resources and nearly four years to put the pieces together, to deduce how they worked and then to make something similar. She couldn’t afford any more such projects.

Kier cleared his throat. “Commander, I think the time has come for a decision no one here is likely to thank you for.”

“What’s that?” Jash supposed she should be grateful any such unpleasantness would be spoken by him rather than her, because she seemed out of favor enough as it was, but she just felt tired. Why were so many of her captains like that? They showed a flash of intelligence, and then it vanished as they crawled into their shells like mollusks.

Kier placed both hands flat on the table, as if laying down all his cards. “Open negotiations with the mainland.”

There was a harsh sound of indrawn breath, though Jash could not have told where it came from, and a chair scraped back. Arudle Vates got up, clasping her hands beneath her swollen stomach, and went to the window. Hewl’s lips peeled back from his teeth.

“You’re fortunate we’re in the commander’s meeting room, Safrage,” he said. “On the deck of
Heart of Salt
, I’d have killed you for that.”

“On the deck of
Masterless
…” Daxen looked Kier up and down, then pointed to Hewl, “…I’d have put you off on
his
ship.”

No one laughed, and Kier’s gaze went around the table in a challenge. “So you want to fight? Down to the last man?”

“We will be killed anyway,” Enthow said flatly. “Whether we fight or not. You asked what we needed from them, but the real question is, what do they need from us? Nothing.”

Nothing. The word fell into the room, and spread out as if to fill it. Enthow had lost so much that clearly his priority was just to survive long enough to pick up the pieces, but Jash couldn’t let his despair affect the others. She started to speak, but Arudle turned from the window first.

“How far are they now?” she asked.

“The mainlanders?” Hewl said.

“The ones you sent into the Sheltered Ocean, Commander. Is there any hope of calling them back?”

Everyone turned to look at Jash, and Hewl spoke as though repeating words in another language. “Sent into the Sheltered Ocean?”

It wasn’t the first time Jash had been reminded of the strange powers manifested by islanders of the Vates clan, and it was definitely not the first time she’d wanted to strangle one of them. That had been her news to impart. Worse, there would be no need to call Ralcilos and his crew back if Arudle had foreseen victory—and whatever she had seen, they couldn’t be communicated with any longer, much less summoned home. They had to be past Cape Claw by now, rounding the tip of the great peninsula to enter Denalait waters.

“I have been planning this for years,” she said as she got to her feet. “I knew the time had come when I heard of a race from Triton Harbor to Snakestone Isle, off the southern coast of Dagre. One such steamship will compete in it.” The mainlanders were so overflowing with resources they could play at racing, when her people didn’t know if they would see another year.

Daxen sat up straight. “You sent a ship into the Sheltered Ocean to seize that vessel?”

“The kind of ship they will never see.” One look at her aide and he unrolled another sheet of parchment to show them the new vessel. Then the plans were studied intently and whispered over while Jash took advantage of the respite to finish her wine. The iron link in the goblet—a sign of the broken chain symbolizing their freedom—touched her lips.

“This couldn’t hold more than a dozen people,” Daxen said finally.

“It holds thirteen,” Jash said. “Ralcilos Phane commands nine of the most trusted among my crew, plus an engineer. Kaig Coltrode is with them too.”

“Kaig Coltrode?” Hewl grimaced. “I know him—he was the oarmaster on
Dauntless
. He left his position six years ago and as far as I know hasn’t stepped on a deck since. I heard he was hiding in Conger Cove.”

“He was living in Conger Cove under my orders, with a Denalait child. They’ve taken her as well.”

“A Denalait child?” Daxen’s brows came together. “A hostage?”

“A pilot. She’ll steer our vessel.”
And do what she’s told, or Ralcilos will take a hand. Maybe a foot too.

There were more murmurs, but when Hewl said, “This could work,” Jash knew they had swung back on to her side. She let herself feel the chair’s back against her shoulders as she relaxed.

“Of course it will work,” she said. “A steamship meant to win a race would be swift, so once it’s seized it can be brought to us at all speed.”

Daxen’s eyes gleamed as if he envisioned commanding such a prize himself. “Even if it doesn’t tip the balance of war in our favor, it will be a blow to mainlander morale. For a ship of theirs to vanish in their own waters—they’ll never forget it. Or live it down, if the Dagrans hear about it too.” He grinned and raised his goblet. “I salute you, Commander.”

“This isn’t something anyone could have expected,” Kier agreed. “I—I still think—”

“No.” Hewl punctuated that with a fist to the table. “We will never bow to them.”

“Do you know what negotiation is?” Kier snapped.

“Do you know what the Unity is?” Jash cut in. “Because I do. That can’t be negotiated with.”

“Why, Commander?” Daxen spoke quietly, but somehow she didn’t like that any more than she had the thud of Hewl’s fist or Kier’s raised voice. “What is the Unity?”

A mouth that takes all things into itself, a mouth that grows larger and hungrier the more it’s fed
, was how a Denalait defector had put it, but if she blurted that out, she would sound either mad or gullible. “It is power,” she said instead, “and people who have power have no need to make bargains with others.”

The talk turned back to the steamship and the race. Kier was considerate enough to point out that she had no way to know if her plan would succeed unless a steamship entered the Iron Ocean flying a broken-chain banner. But thankfully Jash had other plans for an attack on the Denalait whaling fleet, which was still made up of sailing ships and which followed the predictable migration patterns of whales.

Her captains drank again and settled on their strategy for the whaling fleet. Finally the gathering broke up, though Jash told Arudle Vates to remain once the others had left. Her aide closed the door behind him, and Jash got up, looking down at the woman’s belly.

“Does
that
really show you the future?” she said.

Arudle blinked. “This child was fathered by our greatest prophet. Did you think it would have none of his ability?”

“And all of his madness.” Jash felt herself smile, and knew her expression would be worse than her words. Her smiles were not unattractive, because her mouth was generous and it softened the strong line of her jaw. But her eyes didn’t change, because she never smiled when she was happy.

“Nion is dying,” Arudle said, as if Jash hadn’t even spoken. “We wanted his bloodline to continue.”

Jash didn’t know how closely the woman might be related to Nion Vates. She didn’t want to know, because it would be a breach of etiquette to rebuke such a thing. Just because certain customs would never be tolerated on Scorpitale didn’t mean they were equally wrong on Hag’s Hill, and she had a feeling that if she called the child an abomination, Arudle would retort that she was a fine one to talk about making abominations.

“I’m surprised he was even capable of fathering a child, after his injuries,” she said, “but that’s another matter.
Does
it show you visions?”

“Oh yes,” Arudle said placidly. “One of the captains you called to your table will betray you.”

What?
Jash was too stunned to speak. Before she could collect herself, Arudle went on.

“And we will not win a war against the mainland, even if we seize that ship. You don’t need my child to tell you this, Commander.” She got up, awkwardly. “You know it as well as I do.”

Jash touched the twin shortswords she wore, one at each hip. The hilts were wrapped in leather worn soft with long use, but they were still reassuringly solid as her fingers closed around them.

“I won’t abandon hope any more than I will my homeland.” She struggled to keep her voice calm. “The land we colonized first.”

“One day, we’ll all abandon it,” Arudle said. “Burn the settlements and plow salt into the ground. Gather every sloop and skiff and war galley, and sail into the Shoreless Ocean. Better that than the Denalaits. One day, we won’t have a choice.”

“Until that day, we do.” Jash took a step towards her. Arudle retreated to the door and felt for the handle without ever looking away from Jash. She turned it and was gone.

Alone, Jash finally burned the map she’d been given, the gift of despair.
Until that day, I’ll sacrifice anyone to keep our home
, she thought as she watched the map darken and distort. Kaig and Ralcilos and the Denalait girl knew that too. They knew if they couldn’t take the steamship, they could never return.

Chapter Two

Stowaway

Alyster’s favorite part of any voyage was when the anchor was raised, the mooring ropes were cast off and the ship went out into the world. No matter how often he experienced it, it was always new, because anything could happen.

The Sheltered Ocean was not exactly a place filled with uncharted vistas, and the great expanse of Dragonstooth Island shielded it from the Iron Ocean to the east. But it stretched all the way from the Tooth to a few specks of land that formed the limit of Dagran territory, and Alyster’s spirits rose. Those waters might be placid compared to the Iron Ocean, but not many Denalait captains had sailed so far, and definitely not under such conditions as a race.

His crew was all at their stations by dawn, and he watched as deckhands carried the last few crates of food and fuel aboard. A handful of people were there to see them off—the engineers who had designed and constructed the ship, two or three dockworkers and some sleepy-eyed children from the cook’s family. Alyster had half-expected to see the snoopers from the
Endworld Beacon
, but thankfully they were nowhere. Perhaps the perimeter guards had had the good sense to keep them out.

The gangplank rattled back on board, and the dockworkers released the mooring ropes. It was still so early that the sky looked like masses of blue smoke, and more smoke poured from
Checkmate
’s copper-banded funnels.

That was different too. He was used to the
whap
of sails, the creak of shrouds, the shouted commands from a sailing master.
Checkmate
had a mast that flew the black-circle-on-white flag of Denalay, but most of the crew was needed below, to fuel the combustion chamber and work the machinery that drove the ship. Alyster waited until word came up that the engine was now ready, then turned to his first lieutenant, silently reminding himself to pretend he had done this a thousand times before.

“Take us out, Thom,” he said.

“Aye, sir.” Thomal Reeve shouted orders and the huge paddlewheel spun, thrashing water into milkfroth as the helmsman set a course north-northwest. Alyster hooked his thumbs in his belt, then decided he would look more dignified with his hands behind his back. The children waved from the dock, but
Checkmate
had already pulled away too far to make out their faces.

He walked around the deck to inspect everything, never mind that
Checkmate
hadn’t been out of harbor before that morning. It was wonderful to be on a ship so new her paint wasn’t even scratched, and the previous night’s rainfall had left the deck and funnels clean, polished like enamel. He stopped at the taffrail, feeling much better about his first command.

Soft footsteps echoed in the hatchway. He turned and smiled when he saw Dr. Berl.

“Is the surgery set up to your liking, Reveka?” he said.

She nodded, smiling back. Not for the first time, Alyster wondered whether to try his luck—perhaps invite her to stay for a glass of mulberry brandy after supper. She was the kind of woman men wouldn’t look at twice, because they would never be able to tear their attention away after the first glance, and although he’d heard she’d had a child, he could have spanned her waist with his hands.

There was only one problem, but perhaps it wouldn’t matter after some point in the night.

“Good morning, Doctor!” Thom called out and came over to them, asking if there was anything she needed belowdecks—in the surgery, of course. Alyster tapped his fingers against the rail and gave the lieutenant a look that made him pause in midtalk.

Before Thom could excuse himself and retreat, a crewman hurried up to them. Alyster wondered if this always happened to Reveka in public, though she had the perfect way to discourage unwanted conversation. Thom turned to the man, who saluted quickly.

“What is it, Swyres?” he said.

“Sir, begging your pardon.” Swyres hesitated. “There’s noises coming from the hold.”

“Noises?”

Swyres nodded. “I thought I heard a call for help, sir, but there weren’t no one there, so I went out and that’s when it come again. So I asked Vallit if he could hear anything, and he heard a thumping noise.”

“How much did the two of you have to drink last night?” Thom said.

Swyres flushed. “Not that much, sir.”

“Ah. Perhaps it’s a ghost, then.”

Alyster took pity on Swyres. “I’ll see for myself,” he said. “I meant to inspect the rest of the ship.” He couldn’t get anywhere with Reveka in the middle of a small crowd anyway.

Thom glared at the man as if to say,
Now look how you’ve inconvenienced the captain
, and Alyster’s good mood restored itself. That was exactly what he needed in a second-in-command, the ability to keep his crew properly in line. He went down the stairs, past the lower deck where the cabins were—how strange to be aboard a ship without weaponry—and took a lantern before he went to the hold.

He didn’t mind inspecting it, since any anomaly could be a sign of sabotage or infiltration, but nothing seemed out of place. Crates were marked with their contents—coal, fruit and salt pork—and the hold smelled of those as well as of the oaken timbers. Below water level, the air was cool. He paced through the hold and paused in midstride. Over the muffled sound of the boilers and pistons, he heard a thud.

He turned. The lantern’s light made shadows dance along the walls, and he was grateful he was armed.

“Who’s there?” he called out.

The thump came again.

Alyster took a tentative pace towards the source of the sound. Unlikely that anyone could have slipped into the hold without being noticed, but he’d learned not to underestimate the Tureans. They couldn’t walk through twelve inches of solid oak overlaid with copper, but they had other tricks. He closed his free hand around his saber’s hilt, feeling the coolness of the brass handguard against his knuckles.

The sound had faded to a soft tapping, but it came from behind a stack of crates. Alyster considered calling for a few of the men—unlike his older brother, he wasn’t reckless—but decided against it. He was the captain and this was the first day of the ship’s maiden voyage. Calling for help because of a few noises wouldn’t exactly be an auspicious start to the journey.

He drew his saber and rounded the stack. There was nothing before him but another crate with a large lime painted on it.

A scraping noise came from inside.

What the hell?
Ships carried pigs and chickens for long voyages, and Alyster wondered if some livestock had been accidentally penned up in the crate. But no, Swyres had said he’d heard a call for help, not a hen clucking. He knocked on the side of the crate.

The answering knock was faint and strengthless but he heard it clearly enough.
Unity, someone’s in there.

He pressed the saber’s blade to the ropes, but paused. Whoever was inside was on board his ship without his permission and could well be a Turean spy—or, for that matter, in the service of another captain, intent on making sure another ship won the race. He didn’t have to let them out. He could simply wait for a lack of air to resolve the problem.

Except if he did so, he would never know who was responsible for the stowaway. He sawed through the rope, and it fell away. Putting the lantern down, he pulled the crate’s lid off, blade at the ready.

A woman’s corpse was curled up inside. Or at least that was what it looked like until she twitched and fell still again. Alyster caught her shoulder and pushed hard to roll her face-up.

He recognized her despite the blue-grey undertone to her skin, and the half-lidded eyes that didn’t seem to see anything. He touched her throat. A pulse pressed against his fingers and didn’t return for what felt like half a minute, just like the way she’d rapped on the inside of the crate. How long had she been in there? He looked away from her face and saw the blood, clotted and dried, but still recognizably blood.

Belatedly remembering he no longer had to deal with this by himself, he yelled for help, then slapped the woman’s face lightly. “Come on, wake up.” What was her name? She’d told him, but he couldn’t remember.

Steps rattled under the impact of feet, and he shouted at whoever it was to bring Dr. Berl. The woman seemed to be breathing a little more often now, though, and the blood beneath her skin was visible where he’d smacked her. Her eyelids quivered and so did her limbs.

She was still mostly curled up in the crate, so Alyster sheathed the saber, slid his arms beneath her knees and shoulders and lifted her out. Carry her to the surgery? No, best wait until Reveka made sure it was safe to move her. He laid her on the floor instead, and her eyes opened fully.

“Can you hear me?” he said.

Her lips moved, though her voice was so quiet he had to lean down to hear. “’m s-sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Sorry I…scared you.”

Alyster drew back, not sure what to say, but no reply seemed to be called for as the woman’s eyes went wide. With a whimper she doubled over, face to the floor. The sound turned to a muffled keen, and he guessed she was feeling blood flow back into limbs held cramped and motionless for too long. Risking her life and going through that much pain seemed rather drastic measures to take just to report back to the
Endworld Beacon
about his ship.

The sound stopped, and she worked a trembling arm beneath her, but before she could lift herself off the floor, Reveka came clattering down the stairs. Alyster stepped aside for her.

“I found her in this crate,” he said as he replaced the lid.

Reveka went to her knees beside the woman—now he remembered her name, Miri—and took a wrist between her fingers, her other hand snapping open the lid of a pocket watch with practiced ease.
Unity
, Alyster thought,
everyone has a watch these days.

The woman’s damp hair hung down lankly, hiding her face, but the questions in Reveka’s eyes were only too clear when she finally put the watch away. Alyster shrugged.

“She’s from Endworld,” he said, “and she was asking questions about the ship yesterday, but that’s all I know.” A handful of the off-duty crew had crowded into the hold to gape, so Alyster leveled a look at them until they began to shuffle out. “Dunvin, make yourself useful and get some hot water,” he said, and told Reveka he would fetch some rum.

He didn’t know if that was medically advisable for the woman, but he could certainly use it now that the surprise of his discovery had worn off. By the time he returned, Reveka was inspecting a gash on Miri’s arm.
Nasty
. He would have distrusted a small scratch, but that looked like the kind of injury which resulted from blocking a blade.

“How did you get that?” he said.

Miri licked her lips. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse and dry, but quite intelligible.

“A man tried to kill me,” she said.

Oh, that was one for the logbook all right. Alyster said nothing more as Dunvin came in with a steaming jug, while Reveka produced a pair of shears and cut away Miri’s sleeve. He uncorked the bottle of rum and held it up, but Reveka shook her head.

Before this voyage is over, we might all have learned to speak without saying a word
. He offered Miri the bottle.

“What is that?” She didn’t look at all enthusiastic.

“One of the best from Varland Distilleries. They call it Admiral’s Blood.” He held it out. “It’ll make you feel better, trust me.”

She swallowed a mouthful and grimaced, but there was color in her lips now. Reveka cleaned the wound with hot water, while Alyster took the bottle back and sipped, feeling the warmth of the deep green glass where Miri’s mouth had been. She looked a little more alive now, and the muscles in her face relaxed slowly as Reveka bandaged her arm.

“Any instructions for your patient before I take over?” he said, recorking the bottle. Reveka shook her head again, slipped rags and shears into her pockets and began to rise.

“Wait.” Miri started to put a hand on Reveka’s arm, then seemed to think better of it. Her voice was still throaty, but now that was probably the effect of the strongest rum on board rather than of near-suffocation. “Thank you for your help. I’m Miri Tayes.”

“She’s the ship’s physician,” Alyster said. “Dr. Reveka Berl.”

Miri blinked. “Doesn’t she speak?”

“When she has something important to say.” He reached down to help Miri up, thinking it was almost a tradition that fleet doctors were brilliant eccentrics. Reveka left as Miri clutched his hand tightly and got to her feet, swaying as she let go.

He took her condition in with a single look. Nothing but limes and straw had been in the crate, so obviously she hadn’t brought any extra clothes, and the ones she wore were not just torn but filthy. His first priority, though, was to make sure she wasn’t a threat to the ship.

If she was?
Checkmate
was so stripped down for speed that she didn’t have a brig. Well, he’d cross that strait when he came to it.

“Let’s go.” He picked up the lantern and allowed her to precede him out—not so much from courtesy as from caution that wouldn’t allow him to turn his back to anyone he didn’t trust. It took her a little while to climb the stairs, but while she looked wobbly on her feet, she didn’t fall. Alyster wondered if she was hungry. If her story passed muster, he’d send for food.

He directed her through the narrow corridor that led to the officers’ quarters in the stern and the captain’s cabin at the very end, a suite consisting of a tiny bedroom and a slightly larger cross between a dining room and a study. That was a good enough place to question her, so he pulled out a chair and she sank into it as if the journey had taken the last of her strength. Alyster locked the bottle of rum away. No need for the lantern now the windows admitted plenty of sunlight, making Miri look even more draggled and weary.

Except for her eyes. The lids were swollen, but the alert look was back. And the hollows around her eyes made them seem larger, like pools in autumn, brown leaves and water.

He steered his thoughts away from that distraction. He had to question her while she was at a low ebb, and there would never be a better time to begin. Drawing another chair out, he sat down facing her.