Scimitar War (50 page)

The clang as the door to his cell opened jolted him out of his reverie, and he finally looked up. The guards removed his manacles and he stepped inside, looked around at his home for the next year.

“Wait!” he said as he turned back to the guards. “This isn’t my cell.”

The guard looked at him with a sympathetic smile as he closed the door. “Part of the negotiations,” he said. “Enjoy the view.”

Feldrin staggered across the cell and caught himself on the bars of the window. Outside, the sun shone brightly, the ocean twinkling in the distance. Cynthia had gotten him a room with a view.

An inexorable wave of grief broke over him, and Feldrin fell back onto the cot. Powerless to hold the pain at bay any longer, he embraced it and let it consume him. A flood of tears poured forth, and a piteous moan escaped his throat. He wept until his strength was gone, then wept more. Finally, his grief spent, he lay on his cot, reliving the memories of the woman he loved. The woman he would never see again.

Cynthia
…

He heard a flutter of wings, as if a bird was attempting to perch on his narrow windowsill, and he opened his eyes. Nothing at the window. On the floor, however, a tiny scrap of vellum fluttered in the errant breeze.

≈

“Thank you for coming,” Master Fergus said as he ushered Marta, Rowland, and Brolan into his office. “Please have a seat.”

“Thank you,” Marta said as she took one of the three thickly upholstered leather chairs in front of the banker’s desk. Brass lamps lent a cheery glow to the gleaming leather and polished wood. On a side table sat a tea service and a plate of tiny cookies. It all looked very homey, but nonetheless, she was suspicious. “You said you had a letter from Cynthia?”

“Yes, but…”

“Well, what did it say?” she demanded. Cynthia’s letters usually came directly from the ship to Marta’s hand, not through the banker.

“Well,” he began, retrieving a large leather-bound packet from a drawer of his desk. “I don’t exactly know yet. They were delivered by a very curious fellow who refused to identify himself, and the cover letter instruct me not to open this packet until you three were present. It all seemed so mysterious.” Fergus broke the seal on the packet and folded back the cover and began to read.

“Well, no sense in lettin’ the tea get cold,” Rowland said. He got up and poured four cups full. Fergus ignored his, and Marta put hers firmly aside. Only Rowland and Brolan enjoyed the steaming brew, along with a generous number of cookies.

“Well!” said the banker finally as he looked up, a perplexed look on his face. “This is quite a surprise. This is a legal document written by Cynthia Flaxal Brelak...”

“Flaxal
Brelak
! She finally married Feldrin! Ha!” Rowland grinned until Marta elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“…transferring ownership of Flaxal Shipping and all its assets, as well as the Flaxal estate here in Southaven, to the three of you, lock stock and barrel. Marta, you’re the primary executor. It was ratified by a magistrate in Tsing more than a month ago.”

“
What
?” Marta exclaimed. Rowland’s teacup rattled as he dropped it onto the saucer, and Brolan choked so hard on a cookie that Rowland had to pound him on the back.

“It appears that there were some…difficulties with ships sent by the emperor,” Fergus summarized, reading ahead. “Mistress Flaxal…uh, Flaxal Brelak and her husband were about to undertake a journey to save their son, who was kidnapped by the merfolk. She wasn’t sure when or if they would return, and wanted to make sure the shipping business was put into good hands if things there, or with the empire, went poorly. There is only one stipulation: that the business and estate be bequeathed upon your deaths to Cynthia’s son, should he survive...”

“Her
son
!” Marta couldn’t speak. She grabbed her teacup and downed half its contents, but when she looked back to Fergus, he proffered to her a slim envelope.

“This is addressed to you.”

With shaking hands, she took it, cracked the seal with her thumbnail and unfolded the single page. She caught her breath at the very first line.

Dearest Marta,

I am sorry to burden you with this, but there is no one else I can trust. The documents I send with this letter put everything I have worked to build into your hands. I know you will keep it safe. The trouble mentioned in the cover letter sent to Fergus is specified in the documents, but these instructions are not.

Take all of my ship plans and place them in a single case. Deliver this case to the Lightkeeper. If ever an imperial courier visits requesting or demanding my ship designs, ask him to provide a letter of consent bearing my full signature and seal. Take that letter to the Lightkeeper. He will know if it is authentic if he feels my magic upon it. Instruct him beforehand that if he does not feel sea magic on the document, to burn all of the plans.

All my love, Cynthia

PS: Burn this letter immediately!

Marta swallowed hard and stood. Two steps brought her to one of the brass lamps and she held the letter over the chimney until it burst into flames.

“Marta! What are ya doin?” Rowland asked, his eyes wide as she turned back with the flaming document held carefully away from her.

“Exactly what Cynthia asked me to do, Row.” She fixed her husband with a meaningful stare, and held the paper until only a tiny scrap remained unburned. This she dropped into a brass wastepaper bin beside Fergus’ desk. “I’m going to do everything she asked me to do, right down to the last letter, so you’ll all just have to trust me.”

“Cynthia saw fit to trust you,” Fergus said as he leaned back in his chair, “so I see no reason why the rest of us shouldn’t, Miss Marta—Mistress, now. As to the details…”

≈

“You should not be doing this, Milord,” Huffington said as his master placed a food-laden tray table across his lap. He was propped up with half a dozen pillows, reclining in bed in the guest room of Count Norris’ townhouse. He tried to adjust his position, and winced at his tender stomach muscles. It would be weeks before he healed completely, and Norris seemed determined to coddle him the entire time. “I don’t deserve all this.”

“You most certainly
do
,” Norris replied, pouring his secretary a cup of tea and adding just the right amount of milk. “You found Parek, then saved Camilla’s life, so just sit there and tolerate a little well-deserved rest!”

“Milord, please! I didn’t save Lady Camilla, she—”

“You gave me the dagger that pierced Parek’s heart,” Camilla interrupted, bending down to kiss his brow. “I just put it where it belonged.”

“Well, I…” This close, her scent befuddled his mind; he could see why the count was so smitten with her.

“You saved more than my life, Huffington,” she said, her voice clear and steady, her countenance bright. She fairly glowed. “You showed me that I’m not helpless, that I needn’t fear men like Parek.”

He cleared his throat. “A dagger’s just a tool, milady. It’s the wielder that matters.”

“Well, you put down two pirates and nearly took Parek himself!” Tim said, obviously taking some pleasure in the secretary’s discomfort. “But for the next few weeks, I think you really will be nothing but father’s secretary.”

“And these,” the count said with a grin, producing a slim mahogany box, “will be the only weapons you’ll be wielding in my service.” He opened the box to reveal a beautifully wrought set of pens, styluses, inkwell and silver letter opener. “At least for now.”

“Milord, I—”

“Shut up and eat, Huffington,” Emil Norris ordered as he placed the box on a side table, then put his arm around Camilla. “You’ve got a lot healing to do before you get back to work.”

Huffington could only stare in wonder as they all smiled down at him. They were strong and good and full of love for each other. And for him, which left him speechless. He was part of this family, had helped
make
it a family again. Parek’s death had purged the last bit of Camilla’s pain, and had given both the count and Tim a measure of revenge that they need not feel guilty about. With nothing left to say, he took up fork and knife, and followed his master’s orders.

Epilogue

Into the Arms of the Sea

Feldrin Brelak strode through the gates of the Imperial Prison wearing his dress captain’s jacket, a brand new bronze cap on his peg leg, and a broad smile on his face. Count Emil Norris and his wife stood in front of a waiting carriage. Countess Camilla Norris had her hands full trying to keep hold of a squirming one year-old Kloe Brelak. The count’s man Huffington sat upon the driver’s seat, looking like a secretary and nothing else. The three adults were grinning at him, and Kloe was busily trying to rip the lace from the collar of Camilla’s dress. Emil greeted Feldrin with an extended hand, and Camilla kissed him on the cheek.

Kloe screeched out, “Da!” and latched firmly onto his beard.

“Hello, Kloe!” he said, relieving Camilla of the boisterous tyke. “Oi, you got a grip like a harpooner’s mate!”

“Da!” Kloe agreed, grinning up at his father and giving his whiskers a tug.

“Everything’s ready, Feldrin,” Norris said, opening the door of the carriage, “and we don’t want to be late. Time and tide, you know.”

“Right!” Feldrin took a long look up at the sky, at the seedy row of buildings lining the avenue, and the masses of people walking this way and that, carrying out their lives, oblivious to the joy of their own freedom. He took a deep breath of the less-than-fresh air, and said, “Bloody fine!”

The carriage ride was noisy, bumpy, smelly and utterly blissful to a man who had spent a year in a prison cell. Feldrin seemed incapable of keeping the grin from his face, even when an irate shopkeeper shouted at them to slow down. When they finally pulled onto the broad avenue of the waterfront, his face was beginning to ache, and he had to blink to keep tears from spilling down his cheeks.

The carriage turned onto a narrow drive edged with a high wrought iron fence, then pulled out to the head of the imperial navy pier. Feldrin spotted the two characteristically raked masts of
Orin’s Pride
, and his face split with another grin. But the ship that floated beside the
Pride
left him gaping in surprise.

“Odea’s green garters, what the bloody hells is that?” he asked as he exited the carriage. The ship was thrice the length of his schooner, her bowsprit alone as long as
Orin’s Pride’s
entire deck. Her lines resembled a schooner’s, her bow beautifully arched and trimmed with intricate gold filigree. Feldrin whistled as he considered the massive array of sails that she would carry on her three masts, each of which sported three yards. She was also rigged for three jibs and a fore-staysail.
This ship will fly at quite a clip
, he thought appreciatively. He sobered when he spied her armaments: a double row of ballistae ports checkered her side, and a neat row of catapults were mounted on deck.

“His Majesty’s newest Sword Class warship,
Scimitar
,” Norris informed him, grinning like a kid with a new toy. “She’s also Tim’s first posting.”

“What?”

“Emil’s been ready to burst for a month, but he wanted to surprise you,” Camilla said as she joined them.

“Tim spent so much time on
Orin’s Pride
during the last year, helping to instruct naval officers on the finer points of close-wind sailing, that Commodore Donnely talked him into a commission.” Norris pointed down the pier. “Here he comes now, and I think that’s a good percentage of your crew with him.”

Sure enough, Tim, Chula, Horace, Paska, Tipos and a half dozen more were making a beeline for them, all sporting wide grins. Tim, six inches taller than the last time Feldrin had seen him, was dressed in a spotless ensign’s uniform, and wore a cutlass on his hip. The sun glinted off of the sword’s golden hilt. Feldrin recognized it at once: it had been Bloodwind’s. He opened his mouth to comment, then closed it, realizing that the sword’s origin might not be commonly known. Besides, he could think of no better place for the weapon.

“Spiffy new duds you got there, Tim!” Feldrin said with a grin, extending his free hand.

“Thank you, Captain Brelak.” Tim blushed, snapped a salute, then took his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Good to see you a free man.”

“Bloody good to be one!” Feldrin felt the tough calluses on Tim’s palm and knew that the boy—rather, the young man—had been working hard. “Ensign now, is it? No lieutenant’s bars yet?”

“I’ve passed my exams, but they won’t promote me until I’m sixteen.” Tim made a disgusted face, but everyone else just smiled and laughed.

“Give de lad a year, and I’ll wager he’ll have his own ship!” Chula claimed with a grin. He stepped forward and grasped Feldrin in a crushing embrace, Kloe squealing between them. “Bloody good to see you, Capt’n! Dat’s a mighty fine son ya got dere.”

“Likewise,” Feldrin said, as Paska rushed forward to hug him, and Kloe and little Koybur grappled one another playfully. “Is the
Pride
ready to sail?”

“Ready and waitin’, Capt’n!” Chula snapped a salute and waved down the pier. “She’s spit and polish and rarin’ to go. Provisions on board dis mornin’, and de tide’s just startin’ to ebb.”

“Bloody fine!”

“
Scimitar
is due to sail south in a week, Captain,” Tim said, his smile fading a trifle. “Commodore Donnely said that he would be honored to escort you as far as Rockport. We’re going to be stationed there when we’re not patrolling the Shattered Isles.”

“Sorry, Tim, but I think I’ve worn out my welcome here.”

“We were hoping you’d stay with us for a while, Feldrin,” Camilla said as she stepped forward. She had to stretch to plant a kiss on his cheek. “But I understand. You can no more stay here than I could stay in the Shattered Isles.” She stepped back, and Feldrin noticed that her cheeks were wet.

“Aye.” Feldrin looked around one last time. He certainly wouldn’t miss the city of Tsing, but these people had become family to him, and leaving them tore at his heart. “Can’t think of much to say but thank you, and it don’t seem near enough.”

“It’s enough, Feldrin,” Emil said, extending his hand. “Good luck.”

Feldrin shook the count’s hand and nodded, then turned to his crew. “Let’s get her under way, Chula.”

“Aye, Capt’n!” Chula flashed a grin and barked orders, but the crew were already moving, both Horace and Paska lending verbal encouragement.

Feldrin strode down the pier to his ship, but then his steps faltered.
Orin’s Pride
’s finely carved figurehead overhung the pier, shining in the midday sun. He blinked hard to clear his blurred vision, and reached out to caress the face of woman he had loved and lost.

“Say hello to yer mother, Kloe,” he whispered before reluctantly leaving it behind to board the ship.