The Emerald Storm (17 page)

Brice Barker worked shouting advertisements through the city streets for seven coppers a day. All of that went to buy food to feed six children and his wife. Lynnette Barker took in what sewing work she could find. When the weather turned colder, they offered Arista a place under their wagon. She had only known them for a few weeks, but already she loved them like her own family.

“Here, Ella,” Lynnette said, bringing an old kirtle for her to put on. The dress was little more than a rag, worn thin and frayed along the hem. Lynette also brought Esrahaddon’s robe. Arista went around the corner and slipped out of her wet things. Lynnette’s dress did nothing to keep out the cold, but the robe vanquished the wet chill instantly in uncompromising warmth.

“That’s really a wonderful robe, Ella,” Lynnette told her, marveling at how the firelight made it shimmer and reflect colors. “Where did you get it?”

“A…friend left it to me when he died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, sadly. Her expression changed then from sadness to concern. “That reminds me, a man was looking for you.”

“A man?” Arista asked as she folded the tablecloth. If anything happened to it, Edith would make Ibis pay.

“Yes, earlier today. He spoke to Brice while he was working on the street and mentioned he was looking for a young woman. He described you perfectly, although oddly enough, he didn’t know your name.”

“What did he look like?” Arista hoped her concern was not reflected in her voice.

“Well,” Lynnette faltered, “that’s the thing. He wore a dark hood and a scarf wrapped about his face so Brice didn’t get a good look at him.”

Immediately seized with fear, Arista pulled the robe tightly about her.
Was he here? Had the assassin managed to track her down?
Lynnette noticed the change in her and asked, “Are you in trouble, Ella?”

“Did Brice say I lived here?”

“No, of course not. Brice is many things, but he’s no fool.”

“Did he give a name?”

Lynnette shook her head. “You can ask Brice about him when he returns. He and Wery went to buy flour. They should be back soon.”

“Speaking of that,” Arista said, fishing coins out of her wet dress, “here’s three copper tenents. They paid me this morning.”

“Oh, no. We couldn’t—”

“Of course, you can! You let me sleep under your wagon, and you watch my things when I’m at work. You even let me eat with you.”

“But three! That’s your whole pay, Ella, you won’t have anything left.”

“I’ll get by. They feed me at the palace sometimes, and my needs are pretty simple.”

“But you’ll want a new set of clothes, and you’ll need shoes come winter.”

“So will your children, and you won’t be able to afford them without an extra three coppers a day.”

“No, no—we can’t. It is very nice of you, but—”

“Ma! Ma! Come quick! It’s Wery!” Finis, the Barkers’ eldest son raced down the street shouting as he came. He looked frightened, his eyes filled with tears.

Lynnette lifted her skirt and Arista chased after. They rushed to Coswall Avenue where a crowd formed outside the bakery. Pushing past them, a boy lay unconscious on the cobblestone.

“Oh, sweet Maribor!” Lynnette cried, falling to her knees beside her son.

Brice knelt on the stone holding Wery in his arms. Blood soaked his hands and tunic. The boy’s eyes were closed, his matted hair slick as if dipped in red ink.

“He fell from the baker’s loft,” Finis answered their unasked question, his voice quavering. “He was pulling one of them heavy flour bags down cause the baker said he’d sell us two cups for the price of one if he did. Pa and I told him to wait fer us, but he ran up, like he’s always doin’. He was pulling
real
hard. As hard as he could and then his hands slipped. He stumbled backward and…” Finis was talking fast, his voice rising as he did until it cracked and he stopped.

“Hit his head on the cobblestones,” declared a stranger in a white apron holding a lantern. Arista thought he might be the baker. “I’m real sorry. I didn’t think the boy would hurt himself like this.”

Lynnette ignored the man and pried her child from her husband, pulling Wery to her breast. She rocked him as if he were a newborn. “Wake up, honey,” she whispered, softly. Tears fell on Wery’s blood soaked cheeks. “Please baby, oh for the love of Maribor please wake up! Please, oh please…”

“Lynn, honey…” Brice started.

“NO!” she shouted at him, and tightened her grip on the boy.

Arista stared at the scene, her throat tight, her eyes filling so quickly she could not see clearly. Wery was a wonderful boy, playful, friendly. He reminded her of Fanen Pickering, which only made mattered,orse. But Fanen died with a sword in his hand, and Wery was only eight and likely never touched a weapon in his short life. She could not understand why such things happened to good people. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she watched the small figure of the boy dying in his mother’s arms.

Arista closed her eyes wiping the tears, and when she opened them again she noticed several people in the crowd backing away.

Her robe was glowing.

Giving off a pale light the shimmering material illuminated those around her in an eerie white radiance. Lynnette saw the glow and hope filled her face. She looked up at Arista, her eyes pleading. “Ella, can…can you save him?” she asked with trembling lips and desperate eyes. Arista began to form the word
no
, but Lynnette quickly spoke again. “You can!” she insisted. “I know you can! I’ve always known there was something different about you. The way you talk, the way you act. The way you forget your own name, and that—
that robe!
You can save him. I know you can. Oh, please, Ella,” she paused and swallowed, shaking so hard it made Wery’s head rock. “Oh, Ella I know—I know it’s so much more than three coppers, but he’s my baby! You will help him won’t you? Please, oh please, Ella.”

Arista could not breathe. She felt her heart pounding in her ears and her body trembled. Everyone silently watched her. Even Lynette stopped her pleading. Arista found herself saying through quivering lips, “Lay him down.”

Lynnette gently lowered Wery’s body, his limbs lifeless, his head tilted awkwardly to one side. Blood continued to seep from the boy’s wound.

Arista knelt beside him and placed a hand on the boy’s chest. He was still breathing, but so shallow, so weak. She closed her eyes and began to hum softly. She heard the soft concerned mutterings of those in the crowd and, one by one, she tuned them out. She heard the heartbeats of the men and women surrounding her and forced them out as well. Then she heard the wind. Soft and gentle it was there, moving, swirling between the buildings, across the street, skipping over stones. Above her, she felt the twinkle of the stars, and the smile of the moon. Her hand was on the body of the boy, but her fingers felt the strings of the instrument that she longed to play.

The gentle wind grew stronger. The swirl became an eddy, the eddy, a whirlwind, and the whirlwind, a vortex. Her hair whipped madly, but she hardly noticed. Before her lay a void, and beyond it a distant light. She could see him in the darkness, a dull silhouette before the brilliance, growing smaller as it traveled away. She shouted to him. He paused. She strummed the chords and the silhouette turned. Then, with all her strength, she clapped her hands together and the sound was thunder.

When she opened her eyes, the light from the robe had faded and the crowd stood silently in shock.

“Sail ho!” the
lookout shouted from the masthead.

The
Emerald Storm
was now two weeks out of Aquesta, slipping across the placid waters of the Ghazel Sea. The wind remained blowing from the southwest, and since rounding the Horn of Delgos they had made slow progress. The ship was close-hauled, struggling to gain headway into the wind. Mister Temple kept the top crews busy tacking the ship round, wearing windward, and keeping their course by crossing back and forth, but Hadrian guessed that a quickly walking man could make faster progress.

It was mid morning and seamen who were not in the rigging or otherwise engaged in the ship’s navigation were busy scrubbing the deck with sandstone blocks or flogging it dry. All the midshipmen were on the quarterdeck taking instruction in navigation from Mister Bishop. Hadrian heard the lookout’s call as he returned to the galley after delivering the previous evening’s pork grease. Making his way to the port side, he spotted a small whi square on the horizon. Bishop immediately suspended class and took an eyeglass to see for himself, then sent a midshipman to the captain’s cabin. The captain came so quickly he was still adjusting his hat as he appeared on the quarterdeck. He paused for a moment, tugged on his uniform, and sniffed the air with a wrinkle of his nose.

“Lookout report!” he called to the masthead.

“Two ships, off the port bow, sir!”

Hadrian looked again and just as the lookout reported, he spotted a second sail now visible above the line of the water.

“The foremost is showing two squares—appears to be a lugger. The farther ship…I’m seeing two red lateen sails, single-decked, possibly a tartane. They’re running with the wind and closing fast, sir.”

“What flag are they flying?”

“Can’t say sir, the wind has them flying straight at us.”

Hadrian watched the ships approach, amazed at their speed. Already he could see them clearly.

“This could be trouble,” Poe said.

Hadrian had been so intent on the ships he failed to notice his assistant appear beside him. The thin rail of a boy was busy tying the black ribbon in his ponytail as he stared out at the vessels.

“How’s that?”

“Those red sails.”

Hadrian showed he didn’t understand the significance.

“Only the Dacca use them.”

“Beat to quarters, Mister Bishop,” the captain ordered.

“All hands on station!” the lieutenant shouted. “Beat to quarters!”

Immediately, Hadrian heard a drum roll across the ship. The boatswain and his mates took action, clearing the deck of the scrubbers. The midshipmen dispersed to their stations shouted orders to their crews.

“Come on!” Poe told him.

There was a pile of briquettes at the protected center of the forecastle, which Hadrian ignited with hot coals from the galley stove as soon as the surrounding deck had been soaked. Around it, archers prepped their arrows with oil. Seamen brought dozens of buckets of seawater, along with buckets of sand, and positioned them around the ship. It took only minutes to secure for battle and then they waited.

The ships were closer and larger now, but still the flags they flew were invisible. The
Storm
remained deathly silent, the only sound coming from the wind, waves, and the creaking hull. A random gust fluttered the lugger’s flag.

“They’re flying the Gribbon of Calis, sir!” the lookout shouted.

“Mister Wesley,” the captain addressed the midshipman stationed on the quarterdeck. “You’ve studied signals?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Take a glass and get aloft. Mister Temple, run up our name and request theirs.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Still no one moved or spoke. All eyes were on the approaching vessels.

“Lead vessel is the
Bright Star
, aft vessel is…” Wesley hesitated. “Aft vessel isn’t responding, sir.”

“Two points ’a port!” the captain shouted abruptly, and Wyatt spun the wheel, weathering the ship as close to the wind as possible, heading them directly toward the lugger. The topmen went into action like a hundred spiders crawling along the shrouds, working to grab every bit of wind possible.

“New signal from the
Bright Star
,” Wesley shouted. “Hostile ship astern!”

Small streaks of smoke flew through the otherwise clear sky. The tartane was firing arrows at the
Bright Star
, but the shots fell short falling into the sea a good two hundred yards astern.

“Ready the forward ballista!” the captain ordered, and a squad of men on the forecastle began to crank a small capstan, which ratcheted the massive bowstring into firing position. They lighted another brazier in advance of the stanchion, as an incendiary bolt was loaded. Then they waited, once more watching the ships sail closer.

Everything about the Dacca ship was exotic. Made of dark wood, the vessel glittered with gold swirls artfully painted along the hull. She bore long decorative pendants of garish, bright colors. A stylized image of a black dragon in flight adorned the scarlet mainsail and on the bowsprit was the head of a ghoulish beast with bright emerald eyes. The sailors appeared as foreign as the ship. They were dark-skinned, powerful brutes wearing only bits of red cloth wrapped around their waists.

Poorly handled, the
Bright Star
lost the wind and her momentum. Behind her, the tartane descended. Another volley of arrows from the Dacca smoked through the air. This time several struck the
Bright Star
in the stern, but one lucky shot made it to the mainsail setting it aflame.

Although victorious over the lugger, the tartane chose to flee before the approaching
Emerald Storm
. It came about and Hadrian watched Captain Seward ticking off the distance as the
Storm
inched toward it. Even after the time lost during the turn, the Dacca ship was still out of ballista range.

“Helm-a-lee. Bring her over!” the captain shouted. “Tacks and sheets!”

The
Emerald Storm
swung round to the same tack as the tartane, but the
Storm
did not have the momentum under her, nor the nimbleness of the smaller ship. The tartane was the faster vessel, and all that the crew of the
Emerald Storm
could do was watch as the Dacca sailed out of reach.

Seeing the opportunity lost, Captain Seward ordered the
Storm
heaved-to and the long boats launched. The
Bright Star’s
mainsail and mast burned like a giant torch. Stays and braces snapped and the screams of men announced the fall of the flaming canvas to the deck. Still, the ship’s momentum carried it astern of them. As it passed, they could see the terrified sailors struggling hopelessly to put out the flames that enveloped the deck. Before the long boats were in the water, the
Bright Star
was an inferno with most of the crew already in the sea.