Of Sea and Shadow (The Elder Empire: Sea Book 1) (11 page)

Traveling through the Aion Sea boiled down to nothing more than choosing between one delay, an even worse delay, and a horrible death.

Foster grunted again, looking down at the pair of spectacles hanging against his beard. “I, uh, brought you something.” He held out the bottle.

Calder angled the ship to take them into a relatively clear stretch of water, and then took a hand from the wheel to examine Foster’s gift. It looked like an undersized wine bottle with a white label that read, simply, ‘Batch 419.’

He tugged out the cork and took a swig, expecting the bitter wash of cheap wine. Instead, he was greeted by a wash of fruity flavor that reminded him of peach.

When did we get a vintage like this?

“Alchemical wine?” he asked curiously. After a second, he took another drink. His parents would both have been offended for different reasons: his mother would have argued that he was abusing the wine by drinking it directly from the bottle, and his father would have wanted him to share.

Foster shrugged. “How should I know? I got it from Petal.”

Calder sprayed a mouthful of orange wine onto the deck.

“Not good? Oh well, I’m sure she’s got more. I thought, uh, you might like to hit some targets for a while.”

Foster hefted the musket.

Calder ignored him, focusing on his body. Did he feel a warmth running through his veins? Was it poison? Something worse? Should he have himself locked in the hold?

“Foster...I mean, Duster. What was in that?”

The gunner frowned, confused. “Wine?”

“If Petal put nothing else in that bottle, I’ll give you my share from this job.”

Foster reached into his jacket, pulling out a few rolled up papers that looked as though they’d been torn from a book. “She wouldn’t poison you, you know that.”

In point of fact, he
didn’t
know that.

He held up the papers, on which he’d drawn targets. “Where do you want me to set these up?”

Calder adjusted their course to keep them from running into a partially submerged Spire. “I’m a little busy here,
Duster
. If I stopped to shoot for an hour, we’d all be dead.”

Foster shifted from foot to foot, looking at his handful of targets. “It helped me,” he said at last.

Calder stopped. If anyone understood how he was feeling, it was Foster. He’d had a reputation as a world-class gunsmith, which had earned him quite a fortune among the Empire’s elite. It was once considered quite a distinction to own a Dalton Foster original. Even Naberius bragged about it.

But that was before the Emperor’s death.

Afterwards, until the four Regents and the Imperial Guard restored order, the Capital had spent a few months swallowed in chaos. An opportunist had found Foster, kidnapped his family, and forced him to make a gun. Every day until he’d finished, Foster’s family was tortured.

Not all of them made it.

The survivors, scarred and scared, had abandoned Dalton Foster. His own wife and children. As far as Calder knew, the man hadn’t seen or heard from them for years.

Calder’s lips stretched into a grin.

Foster scowled, crumbling the targets in his fist. “Something funny, Captain?”

He shook his head furiously, still grinning. “No, it’s...I can’t...I can’t stop smiling.”

Out on the deck, a frizzy head poked up through the trap door to the hold. Petal looked at him with beady eyes, and then hurriedly ducked back down.

“Ah,” Dalton said. “So that’s what was in the wine.”

For Petal, it was actually pretty good logic. If Calder wasn’t happy, then slip him some sort of concoction to make him smile. He’d have to watch his food for the next few days; once she found out this batch hadn’t worked, she would try a newer version.

“Thanks for trying, Foster. Some other time, perhaps.” The words might have sounded a little less ridiculous if Calder wasn’t smiling like a painted fool.

Foster nodded and walked off. Calder honestly couldn’t tell if the man was offended or relieved.

A hand clapped him on the back, sending him crashing into the wheel.

“It is good to see you smiling again, Captain! The worse life gets, the better it is to smile!”

True to his word, Urzaia was grinning as he loomed over Calder, proudly displaying his two missing teeth. He planted hands on his hips, displaying his huge arms—one wrapped in leather, the other in gold-scaled hide.

Calder considered explaining about Petal and the wine, but decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Knowing Urzaia, he might think it was a great idea.

“A week is enough time for grieving,” Urzaia said, leaning back with his elbows against the railing. “Now it is time to move on.”

Calder turned his manic grin on his cook. “You think so, do you?”

“You misunderstand me, I think. Do not move on to a different wife—I have found it is best to do that slowly. Move on to the next step.”

“The next step?”

Urzaia’s smile was almost as broad as Calder’s. “Vengeance.”

Calder hadn’t thought of anything else for the past week. He wasn’t sure who deserved revenge the most.

The Consultant, Shera? She was the one who had attacked them while they were sleeping, taking his wife from him.

But Consultants didn’t work on their own. Who had hired her? Surely, they were the ones who really deserved a lead ball in the heart.

Then there was Jerri herself.

She had betrayed him. Lied to him for years. Even as they had fought against the Sleepless, it turns out she was one of
them
. And he had married her!

The best revenge might be to leave her where she is.

He couldn’t make himself believe that. If he chose to hurt Jyrine the way she’d hurt him, he wanted to
see
it. How could he be satisfied when he didn’t even know if she was alive or dead? Besides, he couldn’t leave her in the hands of the Consultants. They might hurt her.

Calder didn’t even understand his own feelings anymore. He only knew that he would never be satisfied until he found Jerri.

Urzaia pulled out one of his black-hafted hatchets, laying it across his palms. “It was my fault.”

Calder turned on him, surprised. Thanks to Petal’s potion, he didn’t look shocked—he looked delighted. “Yours?”

The Woodsman looked up, and Calder realized he was talking to a different person. Not his cheerful cook, Urzaia, but the Izyrian gladiator. Banished to the arena in the hopes that the fights would kill him, Urzaia Woodsman had managed to survive for over a year against unstoppable odds.

And a single assassin had rendered him unconscious from the shadows.

“No, Urzaia, no. If she had stayed to fight you, you would have torn her apart, and she knew that. It’s why she took you out first.”

Urzaia looked down at his hatchet. “There were poisoners in the arena. They tried to hide and poison me. It has never stopped me before.”

“Trust me—”

The cook cut him off. “And it will not stop me now. Jyrine has secrets, even from you. This is not good, but every man has secrets. You two will talk, and you will work it out. Once I have killed the Consultant and brought Jyrine home.”

Calder simply nodded, grinning like an idiot.

“A Champion does not fail. Even one in disgrace, you understand?”

Urzaia slid his hatchet back over his shoulder. “I like you like this, smiling all the time. This is how you should be. I will tell Petal to drug you more.”

Only a few minutes later, he got another visit, and this one was unexpected. Tristania walked up the short ladder to the stern deck, standing by the wheel and looking at him.

Just looking.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, smiling involuntarily.

He was not surprised when the Silent One said nothing. She simply stood there, watching him. Bandages shuffled as she shifted her weight, and her coat flapped behind her in the sea breeze like a flag. Little wisps of black hair stuck out of the wrapping covering her head, and her eyes…peeking out from between two white strips of cloth, her eyes were soft and sympathetic.

Which made her silence even stranger.

He coughed politely, trying to signal her to do something, though he was afraid his alchemy-induced smile was sending the wrong message. After a few seconds of standing and looking, she reached into her coat and pulled out…a blanket.

It wasn’t particularly cold out, but he wondered if she wanted to sit on the deck. Maybe make it a picnic of sorts, and stare at him all afternoon. He didn’t object to women looking at him, usually, but the thought seemed quite disturbing.

But she didn’t spread the blanket out on the deck. Instead, she wrapped it around his shoulders, pressing in the corners like a mother tucking her child in to sleep.

He wasn’t quite sure why, until she finished, patting him on the shoulder. She let her hand linger there, squeezing as if to give him strength, and then left.

For some reason, he had to blink back tears.

Hours passed after Tristania’s visit, Calder’s peace was not disturbed by anything more pressing than deadly metal spikes. The sun glowed red behind him, and faint white lights appeared on the Silver Spires.

He understood the rumors now. The lights did look like stars, and they didn’t seem to be simple quicklamps set into the silver. Thousands of white sparks covered each towering spire, swirling slightly like fireflies trapped in a mirror. The show was faint, competing with the setting sun for attention, but he could easily imagine that the sight would be breathtaking in full darkness.

Not that he had any intention of remaining in this maze when night fell. The Spires would light his way, certainly, but he feared they would play tricks on his eyes, driving him to impale his ship. Even worse, he could think of several creatures in the Aion that hunted by night, lured to a glow on the surface of the water. They would be swirling around the Spires only minutes after sunset, hunting.

At last, the Spires had begun to thin. Only one tilted silver spike loomed ahead of him, with another passing beneath. After that, they’d be clear.

Calder’s attention sharpened. He’d learned the hard way that you had to focus most carefully when it seemed you were safe. That’s where a trap would do the most harm. It helped that Petal’s potion had finally started to wear off, so his lips only occasionally smiled without permission.

 
He scanned the water for suspicious shadows, keeping half his mind on the Lyathatan. If anything disturbed the Elderspawn, he wanted to know about it as soon as possible.

So he didn’t notice Andel until the Quartermaster stood two feet away, brushing a smudge from his white sleeve.

“Sir,” Andel said, by way of greeting.

“Andel.”

Normally they would have exchanged jokes, but Calder was focused on navigation. It was the perfect excuse. This was the conversation Calder had dreaded, and the one that he’d known was coming for over a week.

No one ever liked hearing ‘I told you so.’

“The others have all said their piece by now,” Andel said, still looking straight at the darkening horizon.

“Not Petal.”

“She didn’t drug you. That should tell you something.”

“She
did
drug me!”

“You’re still standing, so it hardly counts.”

Calder gave a smile that was only half potion-induced. This easy, comfortable banter reminded him of the old Andel. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he feared; Andel might not have a well-deserved lecture in mind after all.

“I’ve waited a week to speak with you,” Andel went on, and Calder slumped against the wheel.

“Must we, Andel? I know what you want to say. How about we both pretend you’ve already said it?”

Andel Petronus was many things, but he was not easily dissuaded. “You’re angry right now. I don’t think you know who deserves it most.”

“Thank you for that analysis. If we could save the rest of this conversation for another time...”

“I’m sorry that we don’t know if Jyrine is dead or alive. I wish we could have dealt with this another way. But for your sake, I am glad she’s gone.”

The potion twitched Calder’s lips up, and he embraced it, baring a shark’s grin at his Quartermaster. He sent his Intent down, into the boards of
The Testament,
and his Soulbound Vessel responded.

The seamless wood of the ship’s deck rippled under Andel’s feet like the surface of a struck lake. He stumbled and fell over backwards, hat rolling off his bald head.

Calder leaned over him. “Do not say that again, Andel. Not to me, and not on my ship.”

From his seat on the deck, Andel made himself comfortable. He crossed his legs under him and looked up, seemingly unmoved. “Years ago, when I was a ship’s boy on a merchant vessel out of Dylia, the First Mate of that ship took me in. Raised me like a father. From him, I learned something very important. More than enforcing the Captain’s orders, more than keeping the rest of the crew in line, the Mate’s job is to keep the Captain in check. It’s to tell the Captain when he’s on the wrong course, and when he’s going to get himself and everyone else on board killed.”

Andel’s expression was calm, but firm. He was merely stating a fact. “Captain, you’re on the wrong course. You’re going to kill us.”

Speaking of courses, Calder reminded himself to check their heading. He busied himself at the wheel with a compass, checking their position and scanning the water for any outlying Spires. It seemed they were mostly in the clear.

Which meant he had nothing to distract him from Andel.

His emotions demanded that he shout and rail at the man, maybe use the deck to toss him around some more. The waters seemed relatively clear: maybe a dunk would teach him that Calder was the one in charge here.

But the greater part of him recognized the childlike impulse for what it was, and crushed it. Andel’s advice had saved his life on more than one occasion.

What was the point of having a cool-headed advisor if you never listened to his advice?

He prepared himself with a deep breath. “I apologize, Mister Petronus. Please continue.”

Andel bowed slightly, still seated. “You know that I’ve never trusted Jyrine. And you know that I had my reasons.”