Tempest (18 page)

“Can't go back to the house. There's no money left to rent a room… Wait, what're you doing here? Didn't I already ask that?”

“You did,” Colm said, unlashing the boat from the dock. The wind tried to punch it to the side, but he kept tight control on the freedom he allowed the sails, and after a moment of fine-tuning, the boat leapt forward. Lew fell forward onto his hands with the abruptness of the movement, then started swearing.

“By the Four, what's got into you? You aren't allowed to fish any longer, and even if you were, this isn't the weather for it, you fool!”

“There are boats heading for the pillar that are going to be in trouble,” Colm said, brushing his fingers in the water. Too confused, still too many boats around him… He needed to get farther out.

“Trouble?” Lew scoffed. “Only a fool would take out a boat in this squall, so what does that make you, Colm Weathercliff?”

“You're more than welcome to swim back to shore,” Colm snapped, tired of listening to the old man who'd contributed greatly to ruining his dreams. “Do it while you can still see it.” He pointed back at the rapidly diminishing dock.

Lew looked out at the water, then back at Colm. “I've got to say, if this is your way of taking retribution, lad, it's comin' rather late.”

“It isn't,” Colm said, gritting his teeth a bit as he strained to control the mainsail and the tiller at once. Gods, this breeze was stiff, and unpredictable. Too much tension in the sails and he'd lose control of the boat and capsize them when the wind hesitated next, too little and the storm would spin them around and have its way with them. “I told you, there's going to be a boat in trouble near the pillar.”

“If there were a boat in trouble, the bell would be ringing,” Lew said. Just then, the throaty toll of the bronze bell began. Lew stared at Colm with an expression of utter resignation. “I'll just light the lantern, then, boy. Don't want to get lost ourselves out there.”

“Do that.”

Once it was clear there was a purpose to be had, Lew adjusted rapidly. He took over the lines controlling the sails with the skill of an old mariner who'd been through more storms that he could remember, and Colm took the tiller and felt the movement of the water. He felt for the cutters, somewhere out near the pillar, a steady thud of water pressure that Colm could identify fast.

One of the boats had made the turn, but the other had capsized. The first was heading back for the fallen one, but…no, it was tacking too sharply. It wouldn't be able to stay upright. “Damn it,” Colm muttered. They were still a ways out, perhaps a thousand yards… The
Serpent's Tail
thudded across the waves with little grace, but just enough skill to stay upright. The trick would be keeping it that way when they needed to fish men out of the sea.

In the distance, back on the docks, Colm could see lanterns coming to life as more boats readied to launch a rescue effort. They were bigger, better prepared, but too far away. Colm could feel the bodies in the water now, thrashing like pike caught in a net, fighting against the pull of the sea. Two—no, there went the other boat, three men, four. Something else too, something small. Colm was still too far away to tell in this mess.

“We have to tack left!” Colm called to Lew, who rolled his eyes at the direction but nodded his understanding. It was a small adjustment but still took preparation and a bit of luck in this weather. It should take them right beside the first boat, though, and that would be a start. “Now!” He swung the tiller, and Lew released the mainsail, ducking as the boom swung around with a snapping
crack
as it fell into place on the other side.

After a few more minutes, Colm could not only feel, he could
see
one of the overturned cutters, the one that had successfully made it around the pillar. The boat was upside down and swamped, well on its way to sinking, but Colm could see one man lying on top of it, and another clinging to the narrow bowsprit at the front end of the boat. A smaller creature nosed at that one, pushing at it and barking its head off.

“Rory,” Colm breathed. If that was Rory, then the man in the water had to be Nichol. The selkie wouldn't care so much about anyone else. “Let the sheets out!” Colm yelled, and a moment later, the sails were flapping fiercely, useless for propulsion. The
Serpent's Tail
coasted in next to the fallen boat, and Colm reached for Nichol. “Get in!”

“Take Ollie first,” Nichol got out around choking coughs as sea water poured over his head. “He's unconscious. He hit his head when we went over!”

Lew was closer, and in this Colm didn't have to ask. No sailor would leave another to drown. Lew grabbed the younger man and hauled him aboard, while Colm kept his hand extended for Nichol. “Now you.”

Nichol abandoned the bowsprit and pushed off for Colm's arm. A wave drove him under the water less than a foot from the
Serpent
, but the selkie grabbed the back of Nichol's collar with his teeth and jerked his grandson back to the surface and within reach of Colm's hand. Their palms connected with a wet
smack
, and Colm pulled Nichol up beside him.

Nichol was shaking hard, and Colm could smell blood on him somewhere, beneath all the salt. Nichol was cold but Colm felt warm, almost hot with every fresh wave that spilled over the bow. His limbs tingled with some inexplicable, uncomfortable need, making him feel like if he could just claw deep enough at his skin, something extraordinary would emerge.

“We have to reach the other boat!” Nichol said through his chattering teeth, and Colm snapped back to the present, pushing his strange feelings away. “Jaime and Blake, they went down almost five minutes ago, I couldn't reach them in time—Colm, please—”

“We're going,” Colm assured him. He could see the other cutter, also capsized but on its side rather than its belly. Nichol and Ollie's own boat was just now sinking out of sight, and Colm tightened the sails and sailed right over the cutter's remains.

Finding the other men wasn't hard, but it wasn't good either. Jaime was half-drowned and insensible when they pulled him aboard, his right arm very clearly broken, and Blake, stoic, solid Blake who never knew when to shut his mouth…he was very clearly dead. His body had tangled in the rigging, likely thrown there when the boat first went down, and the angle of the mast had been just far enough under the water to keep a dazed, wounded man from being able to claw his way to the surface.

“Oh no,” Nichol said, seeing the body and reaching to free it before Colm could help him. “No, no, Blake…Blake!” He worked to pull his waterlogged friend aboard and couldn't manage it by himself. “Help me…Colm! Help!”

“I've got the tiller,” Lew muttered, and Colm reached out and grabbed Blake's legs. Together they managed to drag him into the
Serpent's Tail
, and as soon as Jaime saw him, he leaned over him, his eyes crazed.

“I heard him,” Jaime croaked, his hands grasping at Blake's tunic helplessly. “I could hear him screaming under the water, calling out for help… I couldn't reach him, I tried, my arm slipped and I almost… I couldn't…”

“Jaime.” Nichol reached for him, but Jaime drew back with a hiss of pain, leaving Nichol's outstretched hand empty. Ollie just lolled with the waves, unconscious and better for it.

“Boy!” Lew yelled, distracting Colm from the hopeless pageant unfolding in front of him. “We need to get ourselves back to shore before we tip over as well! This squall's not done yet. Leave 'em for now.”

Colm didn't want to leave Nichol, not when he was so obviously upset, but Colm knew that right now there was nothing he could do to make Nichol feel any better. He went back to the tiller and they prepared to jibe, bringing the back of the boat through the wind. It was a risky maneuver but the fastest way to get them turned around, and between the two of them, they managed it. The
Serpent's Tail
sailed toward the flotilla of lanterns headed their way, the boat full of five men and a corpse, and overflowing with the shock and grief that accompanied such an awful thing.

Chapter Thirteen

There was a funeral for Blake, paid for by the navy that had let the young men—mere boys, Master Grainger had said derisively upon learning their fate—use their cutters to race that night. Blake Ramshead was cremated and cast into the waves, and his mother wept and his father cursed, and both Jaime and Nichol were now pariahs, although Jaime more so. It was his influence, after all, that had gotten them the cutters in the first place.

One week after the disastrous race, Jaime left with the fleet, taking sour, stubborn Ollie Vanesray as his second. Colm knew Nichol had reached out to Jaime, over and over again, seeking forgiveness or perhaps just mutual sympathy, maybe even a shred of the intimacy that had made them so content together, but Nichol was spurned every time. Now that Jaime was gone, with no hope of ever seeing him again in any way that wouldn't hurt, Nichol turned despondent. He became listless, staying in their room for days on end, lying on the cot and sleeping, or just staring at the ceiling or walls.

Megg couldn't raise his spirits, and the gods knew she'd tried. She cooked his favorite dishes; she encouraged him to rise in the mornings. She even forced him occasionally to help in the kitchen or tend bar with Vernon, who at least never asked questions. Nothing worked. Two weeks after the race, Nichol still lay for hours staring at nothing, the self-loathing permeating the room so thickly that Colm could barely stand to enter it sometimes.

But he did stand it. Colm knew how it felt when things changed abruptly for the worst, and even if his treatment at the hands of Honored Srain paled in comparison to losing a friend because of a foolish bet, the pain seemed similar. It gutted you and left you unsure of who and what you were, and Nichol was caught in the throes of uncertainty as well as grief, mourning for the future he would never have as well as his broken relationships.

At the end of the second week, Colm lay down on his pallet and spent five minutes listening to Nichol try to control his breathing, to lessen the strength of the sobs that were trying to break free from his chest. Colm had managed to pretend they didn't exist every painful night before, and one more was just too much.

He rolled to his knees and clambered over to the cot. “Move over,” Colm said.

“Wh-what?” Nichol asked, his voice thick and wet.

“Move over. I'm tired of sleeping on the floor.”

“You're…what?”

“You've been promising me a bed for months, and it's never appeared. I'm claiming this one for tonight.”

“Oh. Right.” Nichol began to get out of the bed.

“No, idiot,” Colm said, not without affection but still trying to keep it nonchalant. “Stay. We'll share it.” It was a tight fit for two men, one of whom was decidedly too long for the cot, but it gave him an excuse to pull Nichol into his arms, and it was only a moment after that before Nichol relaxed, letting himself be held for the first time since the accident.

“Colm…” It was the first time he'd said Colm's name in all that time.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for coming after us.” Dark, wet eyes met Colm's own pale irises, brutally honest. “I think we would all have died if you hadn't.”

“Rory would have saved you.”

“Grandad!” Nichol choked out a laugh. “I can't believe he was there. I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised, though. He followed you often enough, didn't he?” Colm had relayed a few of the instances when Rory had tagged along, although he'd downplayed the harassment he'd endured.

“He always keeps an eye on you, I think,” Colm told Nichol. “He loves you.”

Nichol's eyes closed. “Gods, he shouldn't. I'm… It was all my fault.”

“Not really.”

“How can you say that?” Nichol asked, anguished. “The race was my idea, all mine. I
made
Jaime and the others do it—”

“Jaime got the boats. The others agreed. The officer on watch didn't stop you, even though he should have. That's not all on you.”

“I should never have done it, regardless.
You
told me not to do it. How can you be this way with me now, after I said such terrible things to you?” Nichol demanded. “After I made such terrible decisions?”

“You've yet to do anything I can't forgive you for,” Colm replied. “I'm just treating you the same way you've treated me from the first.”

“Like…like a friend?”

“Like someone I love,” Colm replied honestly, and Nichol could take that however he chose to. Even if it was nothing but a platonic love on Nichol's side, Colm knew that the love was there, and if he returned it tenfold, well…that was his business.

“I won't curse you, or renounce you, or leave you,” Colm continued. He hadn't intended to say all this when he began this little experiment, but while Colm was reserved, he at least wasn't so much a coward that he could ignore the opportunity to help Nichol and assuage his own conscience at the same time. “And I won't force you into doing anything you don't want to do, but I am tired of seeing you suffer alone, and I'm tired of sleeping on the floor, so this seemed like the best solution for both problems.”

“I…you…” Nichol seemed to have run out of words.

“You don't have to say anything,” Colm said, and let his eyes fall shut. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Oh.” They lay still and silent for long minutes, and Colm was almost asleep by the time Nichol slid one of his own arms carefully around Colm's waist, pulling their chests flush. Nichol was short enough that his head tucked nicely under Colm's chin, and Colm resettled without a second thought, enjoying the warmth and appreciating the fact that his body was behaving itself perfectly despite the close contact.

If his shirt got a little damp from tears in the night, well, Colm found the salt water soothing.

The next morning, Nichol seemed a little abashed but better. He came down to breakfast with Colm, prompting an exclamation from his grandmother and an extra-large bowl of porridge from the cook as the three of them took their seats by the window. Sari even leapt up to settle into Nichol's lap, an affectionate move she usually reserved for her mistress.

“You seem better today, love,” Megg said as she poured them each a cup of tea.

“I am better,” Nichol replied. Some of the deep sorrow was gone from his eyes, and if he was still somber, at least he was mobile. “I'm sorry I've been so difficult, Gran.”

“Everyone's entitled to a little time to themselves when the water gets deeper than expected, love. I didn't speak for three days when your granddad changed, and I even knew he was still alive!” Megg shook her head. “You can never predict how you'll feel from one day to the next at times like this. All you can do is keep trying.”

“I suppose. Or be with someone who tries for you,” Nichol added, glancing at Colm.

“That's what family does, my dear,” Megg said, looking between the two of them beneficently. “Lends a hand. And that's what you'll do today for me, my lads! Colm, you go and get me some sand sweepers at the market, and I'll make a lovely fry-up for this afternoon. Nichol, you'll help me in the back.”

Nichol opened his mouth briefly, then shut it again. His first instinct had probably been to beg off the kitchen work in favor of going out, but apparently the thought of it was still daunting. He acquiesced without another word.

Ironically, the race led to a turning point for Colm. Everyone had a soft spot for a man who risked his own life to save a sailor, and the people on the streets were looking at him again, greeting him and treating him the same as they used to. Even Carroll seemed willing to sell fish to him now, and handed over two fat, wide-mouthed sand sweepers when Colm inquired, free of charge.

“Ollie is my cousin's eldest,” he said by way of explanation when Colm protested. “He's always been a bit thick, but he's got a good heart and courage. I hope he'll be a bit smarter after that blasted race, now he's made his way into the navy.”

“I hope so also,” Colm replied, polite but distant. “Thank you for the fish.”

Carroll sighed. “Now don't be like that, lad. What happened before, that was business, and necessary. No one could be seen with you after you were arrested. It was simple self-preservation, nothing personal.”

Colm understood why Carroll thought that way. “It felt personal,” he said at last, leaving no easy way out for the man in front of him. “Excuse me.”

Carroll tried again. “Come back tomorrow. I'll have fresh eel ready for you then.”

“Perhaps.” Well, it was a good start.

Everyone seemed to be making an effort. Even Lew was back to fishing during the day and drinking in the Cove at night. He and Colm mostly avoided each other, but there was none of the old wariness in the air between them now. Business was booming for the inn, and the warmth of the fire and the bodies and the laughter made the Cove a merry place to be as the weather outside worsened.

The strangest thing—or perhaps it had been inevitable, Colm wasn't really sure—was that he and Nichol kept sharing the cot. It really was tiny with both of them crammed on there, and Colm started wearing socks to sleep in because his feet always protruded beyond the blankets, and they kept their clothes on so there was really nothing illicit about it. It shouldn't have meant anything special to him, but…Nichol really seemed to like it. He would push and pull at Colm until he had him the way he wanted him, then stretch out on top of the right side of his body like Colm's very own, incredibly oversized spirit cat. He purred too, and shifted in his sleep and still snored, and very occasionally drooled, but Colm accepted it all without complaint.

He knew a lot of it was because Nichol felt more isolated now, and it was the truth. His friends were gone, the Sea Guard was a thing of the past, and all he had were Colm and Megg and the workers at the inn. In such a void Colm naturally commanded a bigger part of Nichol's attentions and affections. It wasn't so much because of Colm's own merits as Nichol's own need for touch, for companionship, for closeness. If sometimes one or both of them woke up hard, their erection pressed firm and eager to whatever body part was closest, well, they got pretty good at ignoring that.

Eventually, though, ignorance was no longer acceptable to Nichol.

It was a month after they first started sharing the cot when it happened. The harvest festival had come and gone, the city had emptied of the hordes of merchants that had beset it, as well as the sailors, and the streets were practically walkable again. The painful pressure on Nichol's heart had eased somewhat as Blake's death moved further into memory, and he was more sociable now, greeting patrons and taking short walks along the docks—not so far as to reach the naval yards, but down to the sea wall and back. Colm would often walk with him, usually in silence, and Nichol would stay close beside him, close enough that their elbows or shoulders touched as they moved. He'd look up at Colm and smile a little, and Colm would smile back, happy that Nichol was finally becoming content again.

It surprised Colm some when, far down the docks where no one was there to see them, Nichol reached out and took his hand. Took it, resolutely laced their fingers together, and then looked up at Colm with only slightly nervous eyes.

Colm just smiled again, not really understanding it but not about to say no. He liked the touch, liked it more than he could say, and they walked all the way down the sea wall and back like that, scrambling over boulders and slipping on rocks and holding on to each other the whole time, until Nichol was actually laughing again, for the first time in all of that long month. Colm knew he was a part of that joy, the
reason
for it, and he felt warmth and pride and love, oh gods, such love for Nichol in that moment.

“I'm glad you're here,” Nichol said once he'd caught his breath. “I don't know if I've told you that before.”

“Of course you have.”

Nichol rolled his eyes. “But not in clear words, have I? None of this ‘actions are more important than words' bit you keep going with. I mean, it works for you, but personally I have to say something to know that I mean it.”

Colm shrugged. “I don't need to hear a truth in order to understand it. If it's evident in what a person does, then I know better than they could ever assure me.”

“You know, it's a good thing you don't seem to fancy girls,” Nichol said plainly, “because that sort of attitude would likely irritate them to no end.”

“I suppose I'm fortunate, then,” Colm said. Nichol finally let go of Colm's hand and put his own back in his pocket.

“I suppose you are. Now come one, we'd best get back to help before Gran throws us out for being idle wastrels.”

“I can't imagine what you'd have to do to get Megg to actually throw you out,” Colm commented as they walked along.

“Aye, well, it's something we can make into a joke because we both know what a lie it is,” Nichol said with a half smile. “My dad died at sea when I was just a lad and my mother passed of a fever not long after.” Colm's ears perked up a bit. It was rare that Nichol revealed anything new of his childhood. “My mother's parents wanted to take me and raise me, but I'd been with Gran since I was born, right here at the inn. The family quarters used to be bigger, back when Granddad was alive. I didn't want to go, but the magistrate gave them the rights to me, and so off I went into the butcher's district.”

Colm wrinkled his nose. If there was one spot in the city that stank worse than the docks, it was the butcher's district. All of Caithmor's slaughtering and tanning went on there, and during the summer, the smell had been so repugnant that enterprising street urchins had made a fortune selling small bouquets of posies to people who had to do business there, to help block the miasma of excrement and death.