Water & Storm Country (15 page)

“You owe me the truth,” I say through my
teeth. “Tell me what you should have told me from the
beginning.”

He tries to speak, but his voice falters. He
stops, takes a deep breath, starts again, his voice clearer this
time. “I had a vision, Sadie.”

“Of a battle,” I say, not trying to hide the
frustration in my voice. “That much you told me.”

He shakes his head. “There was more. Another
battle.”

What a novel idea! Of course, why didn’t I
think of that? I close my eyes, count to ten, try to breathe. “What
other
battle,” I say, eyes still closed.

A pause. And then: “One you were fighting
in.”

My eyes flash open, meeting my father’s,
which are red and swollen, his tears drying around them in white
circles. “Me?” I say, finally feeling like I’m talking to a human
and not a Man-of-Wisdom parrot.

He nods. Then shakes his head. “I’m not
saying this right. Before the battle that you were fighting in, was
the battle with the Icers. Their king had gone mad, was taking
children and selling them to the Soakers. This much we knew. It
was—”

“Our duty to stop them,” I interject quickly.
“Did the Riders kill him?”

“I haven’t been able to confirm with Gard
yet, but if my vision was correct, then yes, the Icer King is
dead.” The way he says it leaves me wondering whether it was a
Rider that killed him. But that doesn’t matter. Not when my mother
is dead.

“And in your vision you saw Mother die?” I
surprise even myself with how steady the words come out, like I’m
asking about the weather, or what’s for the evening meal. I wince
when I realize I don’t feel sad anymore. Everything is hot.

Father closes his eyes, dips his chin, nods.
“And you sent her anyway,” I say disgustedly.

His eyes open and his face contorts into an
agonized crunch of skin and expression and fresh tears. But he
doesn’t deny it.

He doesn’t.

But even in my anger I know the truth: He
couldn’t have stopped her if he wanted to. Because my mother is
like me—she doesn’t fear pain or death. Not
is
—
was
.
Not
doesn’t
—
didn’t
.

I move on, still hating him for his weakness.
“The other battle?” I say.

He sniffs, wipes away the tears with the back
of his hand. “My second vision was more muddled,” he says. “I
didn’t understand everything. There were many Soakers,
hundreds—fighting the Riders.”

“And I was a Rider?” I ask. “Like a real
one—with a horse?”

“Yes.”

“Then your vision must be of events further
into the future. There are still months before my training is
complete.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I cannot be sure.”

I stare at him for a moment and then motion
for him to continue.

“There were others at the battle, too, some
with brown skin.”

“Heaters?”

He nods. “I believe so. And two with pale
white skin and beards. Young men from ice country.”

I rub my hands together, for once
appreciating one of my father’s visions. A chance to not only fight
the Soakers, but to avenge my mother’s death. Revenge must gleam in
my eyes, because my father says, “Bloodlust can destroy a
person.”

“So can weakness,” I say.

I’m surprised when his gaze holds mine,
steady and tear-free. Normally a comment like that would send his
eyes to his hands.

A memory tumbles through my mind. “When you
told me of your vision before,” I say, “you said I would have a
choice to make. What did you mean by that?”

He sighs heavily, as if a deep shot of hot
air might be just the thing to change the future. “In my vision
there was a boy…no, a young man.”

“One of the Icers?” I ask hopefully.

“No. A Soaker, clad in officer’s blue.”

My thoughts immediately pull up images of the
officer boy atop the hill, his contemplative expression, my attempt
to kill him—stopped by Remy. “What about this boy?” I ask.

“He was in the fight, but he seemed unsure of
himself.”

“Weak and pathetic,” I say.

“No. Not like that. More like he was deciding
whether to fight, and who to fight.”

“And I’m there?”

He nods. “And you have to decide.”

“Decide what? Whether to kill a Soaker
officer? Like that’s even a decision.” Heat courses through my
veins just thinking about seeing the Soaker boy. Why did Remy have
to stop me? If I had killed him then, before my father’s vision had
come to pass, would that have changed the future? Would it have
changed his first vision, which ended in my mother’s death?

Remy’s face joins my father’s in my mind,
surrounded by Icers and Soakers—the officer boy. My mother’s
assassins.

“First Paw, and now Mother,” I say, choosing
my words like you choose a knife—the sharper and longer the better.
The pain that flashes across my father’s face proves the strength
of my choices. A tear drips from one eye, then the other.

He extends his arms, beckoning. “Mourn with
me,” he sputters.

There’s no kindness left in me, no
forgiveness. My scoff is my response.

I push through the flap and into the
storm.

T
he man in Cain’s
cabin is Webb. The same Webb who I sent to the brig for
insubordination. Yellow-toothed and crooked-smiled and chewing a
thick wad of black tobacco that mixes with his spit and dribbles
down his chin, getting stuck in his brown stubble.

“What’s he doing here?” I ask, glancing at
Cain, who seems very tired all of a sudden.

Cain remains silent while Webb says, “I’m a
witness,
sir
.” The last word is spoken with a mockery that
contradicts the very essence of the word.

“A witness to what?” I ask, but then my eyes
widen when it dawns on me. Inadvertently, my eyes close.
He
saw.

Webb spits on the floor and Cain kicks him
hard in the back of the legs. Rubbing himself, Webb says, “I mighta
saw a certain brown rat chuck a filthy ol’ brush at the admiral’s
son. How embarrassing.” He spits again and this time Cain doesn’t
kick him, although I can tell he wants to.

“What do you want?” I ask.

He smiles wickedly, the corner of his lip
upturned into a sneer. “Just my due,” he says. “A bigger cabin—like
this one.” He motions with a hand around Cain’s temporary living
space. “Oh, and a small promotion. Lieutenant should do just
fine.”

My jaw drops. Either request is impossible,
would raise too many questions, would call into question my ability
to lead, to make wise choices. But if I don’t…

“You’re bluffing,” I say.

“Try me.” And I know I can’t
try
him.
After I sent him to the brig, he’ll spill the beans without giving
it another thought, maybe directly to my father. And then he’ll
kill the girl. The only thing keeping Webb from shouting the crime
from the tops of the masts is the dream of promotion.

Cain says, “You’ve been kicked off of every
ship you’ve been on, Webb. I’ve asked around about you. The rumors
aren’t good. They said you’ve killed people—bilge rats.”

“Bilge rats ain’t people,” Webb says,
spitting again. I bite back a retort, wait for Cain to continue the
questioning.

“There’s talk of a little girl, too. Found
raped and murdered.” I stop breathing, for just a second. I knew
Webb was bad, but has he really done all this?

Webb wipes a bit of black drool from his
lips. “No one can prove anything,” he says.

“So you’re saying you’re not scared of the
other men—the ones who think you did it?” Cain asks, staring at
Webb.

“They’re just rumors,” Webb says with a
sneer.

“People talk about it like it’s the truth,”
Cain says. “I think I have enough witnesses and testimony to end
you.” My heart gallops two beats forward. Will this really
work?

But Webb doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t back
down, even leans forward a little. “You try and I’ll tell Admiral
Jones all about what really happened to Lieutenant Huck here. I’ll
have nothing to lose.”

I look at Cain and I don’t need to read his
thoughts to know what he’s thinking. There’s only one choice, one
destiny for the murdering rapist standing before me. But I can’t,
can I?

“I think we can work something out,” I say,
faking a smile. “Let’s discuss the details above, on the
quarterdeck. You should get used to the view from up there
anyway.”

Webb’s smile widens, the bottom half black
with tobacco.

As we climb the steps, I rationalize the
decision I’ve already made. If I do nothing, Webb will run right to
Hobbs or my father, and the girl will die. She’s done nothing to
deserve my help, but I can’t watch her die, not when I need to know
why she is the way she is, why she hates me so much. There’s more
to her story than a life in servitude.

We reach the quarterdeck, where night has
descended on the Mayhem.

“Right this way, future Lieutenant,” I say,
extending a hand toward the ship’s helm.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Webb says eagerly, finally
showing me some respect. All it takes is giving him what he
wants.

When we approach the helmsman—who’s
illuminated by the soft glow of three lanterns—he turns, his eyes
widening in surprise when he sees us. Still holding the steering
wheel, he nods in our direction. “Lieutenants,” he says. He frowns
when he notices Webb.

“Your shift at the helm is over early
tonight,” Cain says.

“I just started.”

“Then take the night off.”

The helmsman shrugs, allows Cain to take the
wheel, and walks away, probably already planning his evening
activities now that he doesn’t have to work.

“I want you to feel the power of the ship,” I
say to Webb. “This is the best place to feel it. A lieutenant must
know the ship under his command.” I’m stealing my father’s words
again, from a lesson when I was barely ten. More and more, his
lessons seem to be all I know.

Webb stands next to me, his legs planted
firmly, as he seems to take my request very seriously, more
seriously than anything I’ve said previously. I almost feel sorry
for him. Almost.

“Do you feel it?” I ask.

Webb nods, his eyes full of life. “Yes, sir.
I feel it. It feels like a storm.”

I nod back. “Good. Now take that power times
ten, and that’s what you’ll feel at the very front. Come.”

I lead the way to the front rail, feeling his
presence behind me like an unpleasant growth on my rear. Without
turning, I say, “My father did this with me long ago.” I lean
forward on the rail, stare out into the blackness of the Deep Blue,
let my feet lift off the deck until I’m balancing on my arms, the
ship churning through the waves beneath me. One unexpected lurch
and I’ll lose my balance, fall forward. The wind pushes my long,
untied hair behind me.

After a moment, I rock back, feeling the
steadying kiss of my boots on the sturdy wood.

“Your turn,” I say, finally meeting Webb’s
eyes again. They’re wide and full of wonder, like I’m imparting
secrets known only to a fleet’s admiral.

Can I?

(Can I?)

Behind Webb, Cain’s got the wheel in a tight
grip, his knuckles white. He’s looking past me, into the Deep Blue,
maybe searching…for what? Answers? Questions? My soul?

Webb steps forward and I step back.

Is there another option? I could send him
below again, to the brig, keep him there indefinitely. But no, that
will only kindle his anger, make him shout the truth to anyone who
might hear him. Eventually—maybe not right away, but in time—the
rumors will turn to gossip will turn to truth. And then there’ll be
questions and my father won’t sleep until there are answers, and
then they’ll kill her.

And Webb’s an awful human being, a murderer,
a rapist. It’s a wonder he’s survived this long.

One of my father’s lessons springs to mind:
There’s no right, no wrong, only action
. Is he right?

Webb leans on the rail, mimicking my
movements, pausing for a moment to get his arms in position. And
then—

Can I?

—he lifts off—

Will I?

—his worn and dirty boots hovering above the
deck—

Must I?

—his life at my mercy, just like the life of
the bilge rat girl was at his, just a few minutes earlier.

I do.

(I do.)

Without thinking, I grab his feet and raise
them up, ignoring his startled exclamation—“What the—”—and throw
him overboard, his shout drowned out by the splash of the ship on
the waves and the wind in my ears.

There’s only one punishment for murder and
treason: death.

Now I have the blood of two on my hands:
Webb’s and my mother’s.

And despite the exhilaration and the fear and
the sick feeling in my stomach, I know.

I know.

Today my life changed forever. Today I chose
a bilge rat over a seaman.

And when I look out over the rest of the
ship, I spot her right away. A pair of eyes clinging to the mast in
the dark.

Watching me.

~~~

Cain gets me drunk that night. And himself
too. He’s more experienced in the ways of death, but from the
sourness on his face, I think he knows as well as I that grog isn’t
the answer to anything.

But soon death and life and blood in the
water pass out of mind, because I feel warm and there’s music
playing from a few midshipmen with harmonicas and banjos and the
night is clear and starry and what could ruin it?

(Surely not a single man overboard.)

(Especially not a man like Webb.)

On the Mayhem, the men are rougher, less
polished, more uncouth. Their songs are about fighting and plunder
and women and drinking. Norris, Budge, Ferris, and Whittle teach me
the words and I sing along with them, a chorus of men’s and women’s
voices.