Scimitar Sun (4 page)

*She is nothing but a bribe!* Quickfin signed, his fins extending in sustained anger. *They use the promise of sex to shift Tailwalker’s alliance.*

This surprised Cynthia. She had assumed the female’s interest in Tailwalker to be unrelated to the political discussion, because the mer did not have casual sexual relationships. In fact, the term “sex” in mer language referred to the intentional act of creating offspring. Slickfin was offering to become his mate.

She made a gesture implying polite inquiry, and signed, *Could she offer to be your mate and help rear finlings without a betrothal, as my mate has?*

*She could, but she does not,* Tailwalker signed, finally entering the conversation, though still visibly embarrassed. *She seeks to be my betrothed.*

*But that would — *

*That would destroy the planned alliance between our people,* Tailwalker said, fluttering his fins in agitation. *And she is very…persuasive.*

*Persuasive?* she asked, again making the polite sign of inquiry.

*You cannot perceive it, Seamage Flaxal’s Heir, but her time comes with the tide, and her scent fills the water of this grotto.* Quickfin’s tail fluttered again, and Cynthia realized that not all the males’ agitation was anger. Female mer put out a liquid scent when they wished to entice their mates into copulation, but the release of this scent was usually private. To do so in the company of more than one male bordered on indecent, and was certainly a brazen display. No wonder they were upset.

*Let’s go for a swim, then, and let her scent dissipate while I say what I have come to say,* she signed.

They agreed heartily, eager to leave and seek fresh water.

*So, betrothed, why do you visit? You were among us only this morning.* Tailwalker ran his smooth fingers up her back in a gesture of affection, though she knew it was more camaraderie than amorous in intent. *Did you miss my company so soon?*

*I received a message from someone who lives in the place where I was born.* There was no mer term for Southaven, just as there were no names for their own cities. *I must leave in three tides to see him. The matter is important.*

The mer stopped their forward motion as if all three of their tails had been grabbed by a tangler squid.

*Travel?* Quickfin made a gesture of alarm. *You are near your time of birthing, Seamage Flaxal’s Heir. This is not acceptable!*

*What is so important?* Chaser asked, also clearly agitated.

*This man is a mage, like myself. He tells me it is urgent, and I believe him.* She made a sign of steadfastness. *There is no option. I must travel.*

*You must be back in time for the arrival of your heir, Seamage Flaxal’s Heir,* Tailwalker said, making the same sign of determination.

*Of course, Tailwalker. I will be gone no more than thirty tides. My baby is not due for some time yet.* She made a point not to refer to her baby as The Heir, just out of stubbornness.

*Thirty tides is too long,* Quickfin insisted. *Your new ship can make the trip in only five or six tides. You could be back in fifteen easily.*

*I could, Quickfin, but I will not. I go to the place of my birth. I have friends there whom I have not seen in many seasons.* Cynthia stared down the three mer. For more than two years now she had done their bidding, eager to learn her role as a seamage and wary of insulting this easily insulted race. Unfortunately, she had found little guidance in her father’s diary regarding the mer. More often than not, he simply said they were difficult and that he treated them cautiously. She’d taken that advice, but this trip was important to her, and she would not be deterred. *I will be back in thirty tides.*

*We do not know what is important that this other worker of magic has for you, but is there a reason he cannot come here?* Chaser made a sign of calming, obviously hoping to ease the tension.

*His magic does not mix well with a sailing ship. He is also very old, and cannot leave his home.* The latter excuse probably wasn’t exactly true, but it sounded good.

*What is his magic?* Quickfin put in.

She had been afraid they would ask this, and she replied evasively. *He is a mage of the elements, as am I.*

*And what is his element?* Tailwalker asked, calling her bluff.

*His element is fire, as mine is the sea, Tailwalker.* The mer’s eyes widened in shock, and she almost laughed at how human their reaction was. Surprise was, it seemed, one thing they had in common. *Do not worry, my friends. He is a good man, and it is well that we are friends.*

*I do not know if it is good to make a friend of fire, unless one is a worker of metal,* Quickfin said, making a gesture of confusion. *But if you feel you must do this thing, we cannot stop you.*

*You are right, my friend, you cannot stop me,* she signed emphatically, then added, *Thank you for not trying.*

Chapter Two

Departures and Arrivals

“Prepare to come about, Chula. Set a course of forty degrees. We’re well past the reef.”

Cynthia pushed herself off the leeward rail of
Peggy’s Dream
to stand upright on the steeply inclined deck and stepped out of the stream of seawater that splashed through the scuppers. She often felt like she was cheating when she used her seamage talents to weave her ships through the treacherous reefs of the Shattered Isles, but there was no sense in being careless. Her sailors were highly skilled and knew all the major channels, but they had to rely on what they could see from the surface — the black shades of water that signified coral heads, the brown of grass beds, and the clear blue of deep water. Cynthia, however, could actually
see
the underwater topography through her connection with the sea, and guide the ship along the safest and most direct route.

“Aye, Captain Shambata Daroo. Man de braces! Close haul de sheets! Helmsman, bring her up as she luffs, if you be pleased.”

Cynthia smiled at her first mate’s gentle but effective orders. Chula had already been an apt seaman with the outrigger canoes that his people used for travel, and had quickly developed an aptitude for sailing. In only two years, he had earned his berth as first mate of her most prized possession,
Peggy’s Dream
. She also liked it to an uncommon degree when he called her captain. It was a title she had always aspired to, but had thought unreachable.

“You heard de mate! Wha’cha waitin’ for? Get dose sheets in and haul de braces ’round until luffing! Do I have to do dis all meself?” Paska strode down the deck meting out less gentle but every bit as effective encouragement to the largely native crew. Her natural get-it-done manner made her the perfect boatswain. Besides, she and Chula would not be separated.

Neither her baby strapped firmly to one hip, nor Mouse hovering over her shoulder, wagging his finger and chirping his own unintelligible orders, impeded the woman’s progress or efficacy. The full-length sarong Cynthia had convinced her to wear, however, tripped her up repeatedly. All the crew wore breeches or sarongs, and the women wore brightly colored halters that at least covered their breasts. Getting any of them to wear more than a scrap of leather barely large enough to make a wallet had been a half-day chore, and all the crew were performing less effectively due to the unaccustomed garments, but visiting more
civilized
ports made the concession necessary.

As
Peggy’s Dream
came up on the wind, Cynthia looked aloft at the sails and grinned. Sailing was her favorite of all things; a symphony of dynamic forces — wind and waves and currents — exerting their will on the ship, while the sails, keel and rudder captured and directed those forces to drive them forward.

“Hard alee, now, helmsman. Jib sheets first, if you be pleased, Paska.”

“I know to haul jib sheets first, Chula! Do you t’ink I am sleeping?”

Peggy’s Dream
surged forward on her new tack, her bow now pointed toward Southaven. When all was secure on the new course, Paska’s steady stream of orders waned and she came aft to where her husband and Cynthia stood beside the wheel.

“All is bein’ secure,” she said, stumbling as the hem of her sarong caught her foot again. “Blast dis annoyin’ piece of cloth! Captain Shambata Daroo, I cannot work with dis t’ing wrapped ’round me like ten tons of canvas! It is bein’ maddening! And little Koybur don’t like it! He is hungry, and cannot get his breakfast.”

“Little Koybur is doing fine, Paska,” Cynthia remarked, grinning at the baby who clutched at the brightly colored material. “Shorten it a little if it’s tripping you up, but not above the knee.”

“The knee?” Paska parted the cloth and looked down at her knees. “You got strange frien’s who t’ink knees is bad to look upon, Shambata Daroo.”

“Nevertheless, please make sure your knees, breasts and loins remain covered. Even so, we’ll be lucky if the town council doesn’t make you all stay on the ship.” She scratched at her own unaccustomed clothing and sighed. The skirt, blouse and layers of underclothes itched, and her legs felt prickly in the rising heat. She wondered how she had ever worn this type of clothing every day. She carefully descended the three steps to the main deck and took a seat on the windward bench built into the side of the cuddy cabin, leaning back to ease the bulk of her bulging abdomen.

“Can I get anything for you, Mistress?” Tim stood before her, her self-appointed cabin boy and servant, and one of her chief worries. Although he had only endured a few months of indoctrination under Bloodwind, the pirate credo had stuck, and he had transferred his loyalty to Cynthia. He looked about twelve years old, but she had been unable to discover his full name, or whether he had any remaining family. He refused to talk about his time under Bloodwind, insisting only that he never wanted to be a pirate and had never meant to hurt anybody. Cynthia sighed inwardly; some mysteries would remain mysteries, she guessed.

“Maybe a pillow, Tim. Thank you.”

“Yes, Mistress!” He darted off down the companionway, quick as a cat.

She stared out at the beautiful expanse of sea and sky, pale blue above, deep blue below, and both flecked with white. Quietly she thanked Odea for granting her dreams, then frowned when she considered the unforeseen problems that had arisen from her blessings. Her troubled relationships with the egocentric mer and with the stubborn Feldrin Brelak soured her new-found success and put her on edge. Life might have been simpler if she had only been a mistress of ships, but the magic of the sea was in her blood and she would never give it up.

“I believe you are correct, Mistress Flaxal,” Ghelfan said as he sat down next to her, resuming the conversation they had started earlier as if only seconds, not hours, had passed. The half-elf shipwright smiled up at the rig as the ship pounded to windward, spray lashing its foredeck. “Further increasing the size of this design should be workable, although the aesthetics would suffer.”

“I haven’t even tried to fathom a four-masted schooner yet, Ghelfan. Too much on my mind to even consider it.”

“Ah, your dealings with the mer?”

“That, and other things.” Cynthia patted her abdomen and suddenly felt like bursting into tears — not an uncommon occurrence of late, though she usually managed to do it in privacy. “I don’t know if I’m ready to be a mother. I’m still so new to being a seamage.”

“Trust me,” he said, patting her knee and favoring her with an inscrutable smile, “no one is ever truly prepared for parenthood. Life is often a trial, Cynthia, but the joys we gain far outweigh the pains.”

He rose from the bench and strode forward without another word, leaving her to think on her trials, joys and pains.

≈

Far astern of
Peggy’s Dream
, and deep below the waves, Chaser, the mer scout, followed apace. Unbeknownst to Seamage Flaxal’s Heir, a mer always shadowed her travels. Although Chaser usually enjoyed his journeys as her clandestine chaperone, this time he took his duty even more seriously than usual. As her birthing hour drew nigh, the mer had increased their vigilance; they could allow no harm to befall Seamage Flaxal’s Heir or, more importantly, The Heir held safely within her belly. Before Cynthia Flaxal came to them, they had long been without a seamage, and before that, her father had been far less amenable to their wishes. They could not risk losing the opportunity to help raise a new seamage, to shape The Heir’s upbringing to make certain he would look even more favorably upon the mer. With this heavy responsibility in mind, Chaser flipped his tail and shot forward.

≈

Camilla lowered her spy glass as the sails of
Peggy’s Dream
dwindled in the distance and smiled as she took in the vista. She could see far and wide from atop Plume Isle, but this place offered her more than a vantage point. Blessedly, it provoked no memories of Bloodwind; he had never taken her here.

She raised the glass again and turned a slow circle, sweeping the horizon. To the south, Fire Isle trailed a column of smoke into the air. The volcano erupted irregularly, but about seven out of every ten days, the sky above it was darkened by day and glowed orange by night. Toward the west, several native dugouts floated over the outer reef, and with the glass she could see the skinny youths diving and retrieving fish, lobster, turtles and giant clams. Beyond them, a fat galleon worked its way south under an impressive spread of canvas, smashing through the seas on her way toward the Fathomless Reaches at the south end of the Shattered Isles. It was not a Flaxal ship, and was too far out for Camilla to read the name, so she silently wished them a safe voyage and swept her glass northward.

Another splash of white, this one farther inshore, caught her attention. It was a small ship, about the size of one of Cynthia’s two-masted schooners, but with smartly stacked square rigs and tightly drawn jibs over a gold-painted hull with flashy blue trim. The design was like no merchantman she’d ever seen before; the sail area seemed excessive for such a small vessel, and the deck was cluttered with unfamiliar contraptions.