Scimitar War (31 page)

“I…swear,” she said, barely loud enough for her own ears to hear. The echo intensified to a crashing crescendo that, while not painful, nearly overwhelmed her. Just before Cynthia felt that she might faint, the echo burst like a soap bubble, and silence fell upon her mind. The sword had been pulled away.

“She speaks the truth, Sire,” von Camwynn said, taking a step back from Cynthia and lowering the weapon.

“Very well.” The emperor sounded almost disappointed. “It might have been simpler if you
had
been a traitor, you know. A public execution would have satisfied the populace, whereas a prison sentence and forfeiture of property probably will not.”

“Prison! But Majesty, I—”

“
Silence
.”

The sovereign’s voice was calm, but carried such power that Cynthia rocked back on her heels. He rose from his seat and stepped slowly around the desk. His son followed, his face more readable, less a mask of propriety than that of the father. Cynthia did not like what she saw there. The emperor stopped before her, and for the first time since they had entered the room, his temper surfaced in his eyes.

“You may not be a traitor, Cynthia Flaxal Brelak, but by your own admission you are indirectly responsible for a great many deaths. You have professed your innocence, but you are guilty of one thing that We cannot forgive. With power comes responsibility and the need of good judgment. Your judgment has been poor, and your power ill-directed.”

He stared at her as if waiting for an answer, but she dared not provoke his anger. She wanted to say a thousand things, to justify her actions or tout her accomplishments, but she knew that nothing would help. All her attempts to bring peace had failed; it was time to pay for that failure. She dropped her eyes and prayed silently to Odea.

“Cynthia Flaxal Brelak, We sentence you to ten years in the imperial prison. Your ships, and any lands or wealth you claim, are forfeit, to be impounded by the Empire of Tsing or sold at auction. The proceeds of such sale will go to the families of those who died aboard
Clairissa
and
Fire Drake
. Your son…”

He paused, and Cynthia’s head shot up. Surely he would not take her son away! She fought to breathe as tears spilled down her cheeks, a voiceless plea.

“Your son will become a ward of the Empire of Tsing until the time of your release. Then, if he so wishes, he will be returned to your custody.”

Cynthia choked out a sob and bowed her head. He could take her possessions, her home, even her ships, but she couldn’t live if he took her son. She blinked tears away and looked down into Kloe’s eyes. Ten years…Would he even remember her?

“Watch over Kloe, Mouse,” she whispered so softly that only sprite ears could have heard. She felt a reassuring pat on her neck and a tug on her ear. Mouse would stay with Kloe until he claimed her as his mother…or not.

“Feldrin Brelak.”

The emperor’s voice startled Cynthia. She had forgotten that Feldrin might also be sentenced for his part in this.

“Yer Majesty,” Feldrin replied. Cynthia turned to see him standing tall and straight, a pillar of strength; her strength. His voice was steady and his face calm, without a hint of the temper she knew he must be suppressing.

“You are aware, no doubt, that a sea captain is responsible for the actions of all persons under his command, are you not?”

“I am, Yer Majesty.”

“Very well. The ship
Orin’s Pride
, with you as her commander, fired upon an imperial ship. This is, regardless of intent, an act of treason.”

Cynthia gasped, her heart faltering in her chest. Surely not…

“Though the shot itself did no harm, and the person who fired the shot was a stowaway and not under your command, the pyromage
was
under your command, and the results of his actions were catastrophic.” The emperor paused, and Cynthia’s heart pounded loud in her throat. “Feldrin Brelak, your ship will be hunted down and impounded. All monies and property you have will be confiscated by the Empire of Tsing. And one month hence you will be taken to a place of execution, and your life will be ended.”

“Yer Majesty,” Feldrin said in that deep, stoic voice Cynthia had fallen in love with.

I did this,
she realized, her heart shattering into a million bleeding pieces. Feldrin had wanted to sail away on
Orin’s Pride
and live in exile, intent only on keeping their family together. But she had convinced him to come with her to Tsing. She had killed him, the only man she had ever loved. He was going to die, and it would be on her hands.

“Don’t worry, lass,” he said, looking at her with those lustrous dark eyes and that lopsided grin. “It’s not yer fault.”

But it
was
her fault, and that surety felt like a spear thrust through her chest. A guttural cry escaped her throat as her world collapsed and the room went gray. Cynthia felt herself falling. She tried to turn, to protect Kloe, but the polished marble floor kissed her temple right where the stone had struck earlier. Pain exploded in her head, but it paled against the agony in her heart. Her ears rang with Kloe’s cries as darkness enveloped her. Cynthia didn’t even feel it when they took Kloe away from her.

Chapter 22

Consequences

Orin’s Pride cut a slow, careful line to windward, her headway just enough to keep steerage as she maneuvered along the approach to the tiny, rock-shrouded harbor of Ghelfan’s home port. Dura’s gravelly contralto called out directions, while Chula paced and bit his nails. It was only practical; this had been Dura’s home, and she knew the channel like her tongue knew her teeth.

Chula had gnawed every fingernail he had down to the quick, but not because he didn’t trust Dura. Even the nerve-wracking sail from Vulture Isle should not have bothered him—he knew every cut and reef in the archipelago—but beating to windward and cutting back to avoid interception by imperial warships had left him a sleepless wreck. The loss of
Peggy’s Dream
had badly undermined his confidence, and despite Paska’s assurance that the crew had not blamed him, he remained doubtful of his own judgment.

“Take a tack ta port, Chula!” Dura barked, pointing up at the windward cliffs that made the fluky breeze even more fluky. “The wind funnelin’ through that gap there’ll usually let ya bear up and sail through close-hauled.”

“T’ank’e Dura,” Chula said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Horace, tack de ship, and have a care not ta be puttin’ her in irons, or we’re buggered but good!” He glanced to leeward and gritted his teeth. He knew a wreath of rocks lined the channel behind them, but he couldn’t see a thing with the dark water and darker rocks beneath. He was used to the crystal-clear waters farther south, where each coral head was plainly visible, and a man in the forechains could count starfish on the sandy bottom at forty feet.

“Aye, Captain!” Horace said with an easy grin.

The first mate’s off-hand manner soothed Chula’s nerves. He listened as Horace barked orders to Paska, who relayed them to the crew with her own embellishments. The helmsman turned the ship, and the headsails backfilled, drawing the
Pride’s
bow downwind. The ship tacked smoothly, and just as the last sheet was adjusted, a gust from the gap in the cliffs filled her sails. Without a command, the crew responded, and the schooner sailed smartly between the looming cliffs into the inner harbor. Chula released the breath he had been holding.

“If ya bring her upwind,” Dura said, “Rella’ll have tenders out in two shakes ta take us inta the dock.”

Dura, too, had been brooding since their departure from Vulture Isle, and Chula knew why: the news of Ghelfan’s death would not be easy to deliver. Despite the horrific news, he hoped they would agree to repair
Orin’s Pride
. They had been pumping the schooner’s bilge three times a day, and Chula feared that her seams were in dire straits. Captain Brelak had left plenty of money in the strongbox for repairs, so cost was not an issue.

“Bring her up when we be nearin’ de pier, Horace,” he ordered. “No point in makin’ ‘em work too hard.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Tenders were already headed toward them, so Dura waved and gestured, and they nosed alongside. The
Pride
’s crew threw out lines, and rigged bumpers along the port side as the small boats pushed the ship expertly to the pier. They tossed lines over to the dock crew, and the bumpers squeaked as they were snubbed tight against the hard stone.

Chula’s smile of satisfaction at the neat landing flagged as he considered Dura. She stood before the gangplank, glaring at it. “Dura, you want me dere while you have a word wit’ de yard masta’?”

“Nah,” the dwarf said. Her trepidation was clear in her voice, and he could see the muscles bunching at her jaw. “Let me break the news to ‘em alone.”

Dura crossed the gangplank and raised a hand in greeting as she strode toward a tall, blonde woman who approached with a smile. Chula watched as Dura spoke, her normally loud voice hushed. The color drained from the woman’s face, and her smile disintegrated. Chula felt a hand grasp his own and turned to see Paska also watching, her face dire. They had all faced similar news lately; it was never easy. Even little Koybur sat silent on her hip, sucking on his fingers.

After a minute of quiet conversation, Dura waved, and Chula strode onto the pier. Paska released his hand, but followed close; since his return from Akrotia, they had rarely left each other’s sides.

“This is Rella, the yard mistress here.” Dura said by way of introduction. “Rella, this is Chula, captain o’
Orin’s Pride
while Captain Brelak and Mistress Flaxal go up ta Tsing ta kiss the emperor’s royal arse. We’d a been here sooner, but we had to do a bit of fancy dodgin’ to avoid the warships around Plume Isle.”

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain,” Rella gave a short nod to Chula, then turned back to Dura, “but, I don’t understand. The captain of the
Lady Belle
didn’t mention any warships being at Plume Isle.”

“Never seen no ship called the
Lady Belle
at Plume,”
Dura said with a furrowed brow.

“The captain said he stopped there and spoke with Lady Camilla.”

“If they stopped by before the pirate attack, I’d a seen ‘em. And nobody’s talked with Camilla after, either. She’s been…indisposed.”

“Pirate attack?” Rella’s eyes widened.

Dura gave a brief and painful account of the attack and aftermath on Plume Isle, and Rella’s eyes grew even wider.

“The
Lady Belle
stopped by here for a refit,” Rella said, her face pinched in confusion. “Her captain, a fellow named Johns Torek, said that Lady Camilla had recommended he come here.”

“Torek!” Paska shoved up to the yard mistress. “Dis
Lady Belle
a two-masted, t’ree-yard square rig wit’ a clubfoot fore-staysail an’ a high-aspect flyin’ jib, painted wit’ faded gold on her rail?”

“Yes, that’s the ship, though she looks different now.” Rella looked more suspicious than confused now. “How do you know it?”

“Dat’s de
Cutthroat
!” Paska was shaking. Chula could not remember when he had seen her so angry. “De man’s name is Parek, and he’s a bloody pirate! But what’s he doin’ here?”

Rella’s face blanched.

“And I’ll wager he was chockablock with all manner of finery, not ta mention a chest o’ treasure that’d choke a sea drake!” Rella nodded at Paska’s description. “Dat was da booty he stripped from Plume Isle!”

“I should have trusted my instincts,” Rella said in a self-admonishing tone. “He paid in gold, and even gave us a handsome bonus.”

Chula gritted his teeth, remembering Paska’s stories of what Parek had done. He stepped forward and gripped Rella’s arm to get her attention. “An’ dis Capt’n Torek wanted a refit ta make de ship look different, right?” He continued when Rella nodded. “So what’s dis
Lady Belle
look like now, and where’s he takin’ her?”

“Tsing,” Rella said, her own features hardening. “At least that’s what he said. I’ll show you the work list and sketch her new lines for you. She won’t be hard to find.”

“Oh, it won’t be hard to find de ship, Mistress Rella,” Chula agreed, though he shook his head. “But dat pirate…I be bettin’ me last copper dat he be long gone.”

≈

Iron clattered on iron, stirring Cynthia from a fitful sleep.

Marta must be rearranging the pots in the kitchen again
, she thought sleepily.

The sound came again, closer this time, accompanied by voices with strange accents. She opened her eyes to behold the bars of a prison cell, and the anguish of the past days washed over her so hard that her chest ached. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit back a sob, then forced them back open and sat up in her narrow bunk.

The sun shone through the single window of her airy cell, certainly better than the warship’s brig and not at all what she had expected of the imperial prison. The linens were even clean. But that didn’t change the fact that Feldrin was to die, and she would be imprisoned throughout Kloe’s childhood. Her gut clenched.

She stood and stretched, trying to ignore the aches and pains. Her head was still sore where she’d been hit, and her muscles were tight after her sedentary incarceration on
Resolute
. Her breasts, heavy with milk that she would never feed to her son, ached constantly. But these pains she could ignore; they were physical. The emotional pains—separation from her family, guilt over Feldrin’s death sentence—wracked her heart and soul every waking moment. And she now had ten years to ponder her failures and their consequences.

“By the time I get out of here, I’ll be stark raving mad,” she muttered.

She straightened her simple linen shift, then moved her chamber pot to the door of the cell. It was only her second day in prison, but already she was learning the routine: breakfast, lunch, and dinner at assigned times, and one hour of exercise per day. Exercise meant walking in circles around the courtyard, but at least it gave her the opportunity to see the sky.

She stood and waited, feigning patience as the jailor and his team of trustees—identifiable by the red sashes over their blue shifts—worked their way down the long row of cells. When Cynthia’s turn came, she stepped aside while they opened her door, removed the chamber pot, and handed over a tray of food; stew, bread and water, the same as yesterday’s lunch and dinner. Behind them walked the chief jailor, his hands tucked in his wide belt. Cynthia took her tray and placed it on her bed, then turned back to catch the jailor’s eye.