Across the Long Sea (4 page)

“No.” She stiffened. For the first time Mal glimpsed real grief in the depths of her green eyes. His eyes, the one piece of herself she'd allowed him.

“He breathed his last only hours ago,” she continued. “There's been no time. He's had the blessing, of course. Master Josef said the prayers. And then we had word of your approach.”

“Ah,” Mal realized. “You've left the job to me.”

“It's the least you can do,” she replied coldly. “See it's done correctly, Malachi. I'll not have his shade lingering for regret.”

“Alive, my father spared no time for regret,” Mal said. “It's unlikely that will change with his death.”

“God willing,” Lady Selkirk said, resigned. Then she turned her back on Mal, spine stiff as she descended the spiral. Mal sent his mage globe after, to light her way, and received no thanks in return.

He walked around lantern and bier to the window, placed his hands on the wide graystone sill, and looked out on the sea. Torches burned along the waterline, thrust amongst the rocks and into the sand, set carefully away from the pier itself. Lads and lasses stood watch, buckets of seawater at the ready in case wind sent a spark skyward.

A single unguarded ember could lay waste to tall ship and trade goods alike.

Mal counted three ships moored in the deep water. It was too dark to make out either their colors or captain's flag.

He realized he'd have to walk the pier in the morning, shake hands with captain and crew, ask the right questions, show an interest. Because it was expected. They'd be kind to him, because he was newly made Selkirk, the last of the line. But they'd be wary, because he'd long ago taken on a different role: the right hand of the king.

Salt air and smoke stung Mal's eyes. He smudged moisture from his lashes with the back of his hand, then went in search of Liam.

“W
HAT
'
S
HE
SAYING
, my lord?”

Mal dipped a corner of sea sponge in the bowl of rose oil Liam held cupped in his hands. Mal squeezed the sponge until jagged pores absorbed the oil, brushed overflow back into the bowl, then used the sponge to paint rose-­perfume sigils on his father's forearm.

“Nay, nothing,” he replied absently. “His shade has gone on. There's no evidence of it here. The temple's empty of ghosts. The priests prefer it that way.”

“Oh.”

Mal looked away from his work, studied the boy.

“What is it, lad? Are you seeing something I'm not?” He'd become more comfortable with Siobahn's loss, but he still caught himself second-­guessing his intuition, and that was more worrisome than he liked to admit.

He'd spent his entire term as vocent working with Siobahn at his side, relying on her strength more even than his own. He sometimes still felt unmoored without his bride, a callow youth feeling his way forward into uncharted territory.

You're no less a v
ocent without her
, Avani had written over the winter, when he'd used ink and parchment to confess his doubts.
The bhut was but a manifestation, a channeling of all that makes you magus.

Avani, who still held faith that her foreign Goddess would right all wrongs, and understood too little of what it meant to be vocent.

“No, my lord.” Liam answered, startling Mal from recollection. “But you looked fretful. I thought perhaps his spirit was moaning about, all sour and lost as they sometimes are.”

Mal's small smile was far more real than the tight grimace he'd shown his mam.

“He was my da, Liam,” he said, looking down on his father's blunt, slack face. “He used to sit me on his lap after supper, and tell me tales of rogue seamen and lost treasure and the battles he'd fought on the deep sea.”

Liam peeked around Mal's shoulder, thoughtful.

“And that's what kilt him, my lord? That tiny prick on his thumb?”

“Aye.” Mal squeezed the sponge again, painted Selkirk's brow. “See, there, how the flesh is puffed around the entrance, how the veins are black up and along the arm, all the way past his elbow?”

“Of course, my lord.” Liam bent closer to the punctured thumb, nearly sloshing rose oil as he did so. Mal captured the bowl, set it on the bier alongside his sponge, and picked up his father's hand.

He traced the line of vein beneath skin, his fingers pale against his father's sun-­darkened skin.

“The infection started in the wound,” he explained. “And poisoned the blood. The poison spread along the veins, toward the heart.
Sepsis
, the priests call it.” He set the hand gently back in place. “Generally treatable, if caught well in time. Even after the infection has spread, amputation of the thumb or hand might have saved his life.”

Liam studied the dead man on the bier. Mal wondered what the boy saw. An old sea lord, gnarled and past his prime, or a man still strong of bone and sinew, marked by loss and battle, but quick of mind and heart? The body was naked but for loin wrappings, long limbs peppered with the small scars one received on the water. Larger scars, remnants of battle, marked his chest and right side; war hadn't felled the Selkirk, nor had grief.

It had taken something as simple and mundane as a fishhook to put the man in his shroud.

“Did it hurt, my lord?” Liam wondered, ghoulish in youth. “Or was it like the Red Worm, and quick?”

“It would have hurt, at the last,” Mal replied. “But once his organs failed, he wouldn't have lingered long.”

“He was a canny man, was he, the Selkirk?”

“Very.” Mal touched his father's brow again, this time in benediction. His father had known enough to send his youngest son away to the king, even if it meant leaving Selkirk without true heir.

“I'm sorry, my lord,” Liam said. “Even if he spoke unkindly of you, still you loved him. So, I'm sorry for your loss.” He picked up his bowl, silently extended the sponge.

“Thank you.” Mal didn't ask how the boy knew the keep's history; tongues wagged, especially during mourning.

W
HEN
THE
S
ELKIRK
was properly laid out and anointed, eyes pressed closed, weighted down with the true gold coins kept since his birth for exactly that purpose, Mal sent Liam to bed. The boy went without fuss, yawning.

Mal returned to the window, to the scrape of the wind and the crash of the waves, and the perfume of roses blooming in the dark. There was a moon in the sky, near full, lighting the deep off and on as high clouds scuttered across the yellow face. The heat off the lantern warmed the nape of Mal's neck.

“He was proud of you, my lord.”

Biaz was a wise man. He'd scuffed the tips of his own sandals against the stairs as he climbed, giving Mal fair warning.

“Was he?” Mal studied the moon. “He never wrote, you know. Not once after I'd fostered to Doyle, or after, when I was made vocent. Mother penned a missive every season, of course, but the Selkirk cut me from his heart.”

The housecarl moved to stand at the window, shoulder against Mal's, swollen brown fingers gripping the sill. He looked down at the torches on the beach, and Mal felt his pride in the swell of his rib cage.

“After your brother Rowan was lost,” Biaz said, “your father had interest only in the business. He threw himself into the trade with a passion I hadn't seen since the war. And he did well by it; we've seven ships now, my lord, and three of them the fastest brigs in ser­vice.”

“Seven,” Mal echoed, surprised. “Where'd he find the coin?”

“It's said a Serrano can charm the balls off a bull,” Biaz said. “And that was certainly true of your father. He negotiated exclusive trade rights with Gheislain, and again with the tribesmen off the Black Coast. He knew how to grease a port master's palm, did your father, and how to pay off the pirate kings, and he turned near every coin he earned back into the business, where he could.”

“That can't have made him popular in Low Port.”

The housecarl shrugged. “Sea lords are a jealous sort, you've the right of it. But they're also fiercely loyal, and the Selkirk, he knew well how to earn their loyalty and keep it.”

“With more coin?” Mal hazarded, amused.

“Some of that,” Biaz admitted. “But also the charm. He knew how to look a person in the eye and make him think he was the only man in the world mattered. Rowan was the same, he was.”

“I remember.”

“You, though, my lord,” Biaz took a long breath. “You're far more like her ladyship. You run deep, the both of you.”

Mal considered the moon. “Is that meant to be a compliment?”

“Aye, because a man who runs deep will always do right.” Biaz waited.

“Not always,” Mal said. “But this time. You needn't worry, Shannon. I don't intend to accept the title.”

The housecarle exhaled, relieved. “I didn't think you would, my lord.”

“Selkirk isn't home, hasn't been for most of my life. My brother's too deeply a part of its walls.”

Biaz's mouth tightened. He glanced over his shoulder with much the same furtive peek Liam had used earlier. “Rowan, my lord? The maids claim he walks the lower halls, but I've never—­”

“Metaphorically,” Mal corrected. “Rowan's not here. The ghost in the lower hall is Cook's lost lad. But don't tell her; it will break her heart. Let them think it's Rowan.” He left the window at last, considered his father's shell. “I only meant my brother went down in my place, when he was supposed to be sitting the sea lord's chair.”

“Because your father insisted on an heir at the helm.” Biaz glanced at the body on the bier, crossed himself quietly.

“And I was useless as a palsied infant on the water. It should have been me. The keep hasn't forgotten.” Mal grimaced. “The fire in the temple didn't much help, after.”

Biaz chuckled, wry. “Why do you think Master Josef is holed away in his cell? It's true you're not his favorite.” His glance brushed Mal's yellow ring, jerked away again. “So, the title?”

“Will go next to my mother,” Mal replied. “I've the king's blessing. I imagine she'll be pleased.”

Biaz's dark brows rose.

“She's just lost her husband, my lord. I misdoubt she'll find much pleasure in it at all.”

Chastened, Mal nodded.

S
ELKIRK
'
S
SEAT
WAS
more high-­backed bench than chair, notable only for the thick, blue cushion on the plank, a concession to the sea lord's gout. Mal lowered himself onto the cushion, felt the press of wood beneath the goose down, and thought the padding had done his father little good.

The hall was empty but for a fair-­haired lad tending the hearth. More benches were stacked against the graystone walls, awaiting dawn and breakfast. The boards were scrubbed clean; two long-­limbed dogs chewed bones beneath the table, quietly content.

Mal rested his head against the seat's high back. He closed his eyes, listening to the snap and pop of embers in the chimney. He dozed in his father's chair, dreamless, oddly content as the hounds at their supper.

 

Chapter Three

S
ELKIRK'S
M
AS
TERHEALER
FOUND
Mal in the kitchens, breaking his fast under Cook's watchful eye.

Mal abandoned his fish stew, brushed crumbs from his shirt, and rose.

“Brother,” Mal said. “Good morning to you.”

The Masterhealer was broad and squat, and looked nearly as old as Selkirk's temple. He was completely bald but for a few short hairs around his ears, and he had the desert eyes of one who was born to the faith. The sleeves of his otherwise simple robes were embroidered with delicate vines. He wore the Rose on his breast.

“We haven't met,” Mal extended a hand. “Brother Joseph, is it?”

The Masterhealer nodded. He ignored Mal's hand, bowing briefly instead.

“Yes, my lord. No, my lord. We haven't met. I replaced Brother John some fifteen years ago when he finally succumbed to the lurgi.”

“Sit,” Mal offered, and returned to his stew. Brother Joseph, after glancing at Cook for permission, settled at the boards. “I remember Brother John; he was very kind. He taught me my sailing knots and the quickest way to gut a fish.”

Brother Joseph nodded. “He was a man for the sea, always.” Cook slid a second bowl of stew beneath the Masterhealer's elbow. He nodded absent thanks.

“My brothers in Wilhaiim send word that the Worm is not easing its poisonous grip,” Joseph said. “I admit I'm concerned, my lord. Surely you're better off at the king's side?”

Cook's stew was spicy. Mal scraped the bowl clean, in no hurry. He took several swallows of sweet wine from the mug provided, then propped his elbows on the boards.

“Wilhaiim's gates are closed. No messengers are riding out.”

Joseph met Mal's stare, expression inscrutable.

“Nevertheless,” the priest said, “I understand things are not improving. Children are dying in the streets, an entire generation at risk.”

Mal crossed himself. Brother's Joseph's stern face relaxed. Mal schooled his own expression to sympathy.

“Your brothers would have told you His Majesty has taken every opportunity to contain the illness. It is a spring plague, albeit an especially cruel strain. The city defends itself as best it can, as the city has done every spring since long before your father's father left the desert sands.”

Brother Joseph dipped his spoon into his bowl.

“You're positive it's nothing more? Nothing . . . sinister?” he asked his stew. “Even here on the coast, we've heard rumors of the barrowmen and war.”

“Aye,” Mal said simply. “It's a natural affliction, not more.”

Brother Joseph nodded. He ate in silence, staring at Mal. Mal gazed back, unfazed, while Cook sang a mournful song of pirates wed at sea. When his bowl was empty, the priest pushed back his bench and stood, old bones audibly creaking.

“Best you return to Wilhaiim soon, then, aye?” he said. “The throne will be missing you; you shouldna have come at all.”

This time, Mal didn't rise. He smiled, polite and distant.

“A son's duty is always first to his mother. Lady Selkirk was in need, and His Majesty insisted.”

“You've a way with platitudes, I grant you that,” Brother Joseph replied. “I misdoubt you were thinking of Lady Selkirk when you forced Lord Rowan into your rightful place upon the sea.”

“Is that how it is, then?” Mal tapped his fingers on the board, yellow gem sparking. “I appreciate your honesty.”

“We're an honest folk, here, and loyal to the dead lord,” Brother Joseph said. “You'll find no welcome amongst us. Lord Vocent.”

“Masterhealer.”

Brother Joseph paced calmly from the kitchens. Mal watched him go, thinking. Cook, bent over a cauldron of boiling shellfish, continued to sing.

T
HE
S
E
LKIRK
ROSES
were open to the cool morning, their perfume mingling pleasantly with the salt air. Liam met Mal at the west gate, a garland crown of roses on his head.

“There's a lass in the pantry made it for me.” The boy grinned, all cheek. “She says she don't mind my scars, and I got a kiss in turn for the wearing of it.”

“Doesn't,” Mal corrected, hiding a smile. “And stick to kisses, Liam. I'm not of a mind to explain to Avani how you got a babe on a maid your first time out.”

“Of course, my lord.” Liam bent the knee, then straightened his crooked flower crown, unembarrassed. “I'll leave it, if you don't mind, my lord. Else she's as like to kick as smile, and she promised me seed cakes this evening.”

“Ah, and there's the truth of it. Not the kisses, but the cakes.”

“Aye, my lord.” Liam dismissed the subject and turned toward the gate. “Are we to visit the tall ships, my lord? I've been watching them from the battlements, my lord, and they're big as houses. Floating houses.”

“They need to be, to carry trade goods. Look as you like, Liam, but keep your hands to yourself. I'll not have you lose a hand to accidental thievery.”

“Yes, my lord.” Liam promised, subdued.

S
ELKIRK
P
ERCHED
UPON
a natural stack of rock. The peninsula jutted in crags and cliffs over the water. The first Lady Selkirk had ordered steps cut in the rock, an onerous and time-­consuming task; twelve strong men and women were lost to the stair, the rock made slippery by fog and sea spray. A more enterprising descendant had added thick rope, cables bolted into the stone for ease of climb, and later a system of lifts and pulleys for the transfer of dry goods.

The wind whistled against the rocky shelf, and even Liam clutched at the guide ropes with both hands as he descended, carefully testing one wet step at a time.

“Leastways the Downs have a proper path,” the boy complained, nose scrunched against sea spray, roses fluttering in his hair. “Smooth and slow-­like.” He considered the lift as it was winched past, open barrels of silver fish suspended midair, swaying. “Safer riding up and down in
that
, I think.”

“I'll stick to the stairs, thank you,” Mal said. “And so will you.”

For the first time in a long while Mal's poisoned lungs didn't fail him. He was warm but not short of breath when they finally reached the shore. He took a deep, hungry breath, and was pleased and surprised by the comfort of salt and wet behind his ribs.

Liam dropped to his knees on the beach, sifting handfuls of sand between his fingers.

“Feels like sugar,” the boy decided, entranced. “Smells like fish.” He touched the tip of a sandy finger to his tongue, making a face. “Tastes like fish, too.”

“Mayhap you have it backwards,” Mal suggested, amused. “Keep an eye out for shell; Biaz pays a silver penny for white oyster.”

Liam grunted, sharp gaze noting the tall, cold torches, then skimming the long pier and anchored ships.

“Only two left, my lord. I saw one go out after dawn. They used oars.”

Mal said, “The water's very deep very fast here, but the wind isn't strong enough for use until farther out. A good oars crew is near as powerful as bluster.”

Liam straightened, sand sticking to the knees of his trousers. He laughed and pointed. “I'd been wondering where he'd got to. Likes the fish, doesn't he?”

Mal caught a glimpse of ebony feathers among a throng of white gulls circling the pier. He hadn't had time to miss the raven, and felt a surprising pang of guilt.

“Well,” he said. “Best see he's not gotten himself into any trouble.”

“That one, my lord?” Liam laughed. “He's cannier than the lot of us put together.” He followed Mal across the beach, twice almost loosing his rose crown to the wind.

T
HE PIER GROANED
and shivered beneath their step, tortured by ship and sea. The planks stank of tar; both pier and tall ship were regularly painted in the thick substance. More open barrels waited in groups of three for the lift: silver fish and clams and sea crawlers and oysters tossed together in a welter of fresh catch.

“The real coin is there,” Mal said, nodding down the pier at a pyramid of stacked square crates. “Spice, chai, and kahve. Spice and chai from the north, and kahve from the Black Coast. Wilhaiim pays dearly for all three, the merchants and islanders are rich, all.”

Liam studied the crates. Blue and green sigils labeled their contents, dye faded after a long, hot voyage.

“Avani's an islander,” the boy mused. “And not rich.”

“No.” Mal frowned, watching as Jacob chased a fat gull away from a dropped, flopping fish. The raven pinned the fish between sharp claws and plunged his beak into the glassy, dead eye. “Although once her family might have been. Before the eight islands sank, they were known for a rare fabric woven from the silk of orange butterflies.” He whistled, sharp, between two fingers. “The butterflies were lost with the islands and the islanders.”

Merchants and seaman froze at Mal's whistle. The raven did not. Jacob swallowed down the fish's eye, and went to work on its gills. Mal cursed.

“He'll not come till he's ready, my lord,” Liam said, wise beyond his years. Then, “Look, there, that fellow with the ring in his ear. He's waving, my lord, do you know him? He looks like a pirate, but he ain't, I mean,
isn't
he? Can we go and say hello?”

“Pirates sighted near Selkirk are quickly keelhauled,” Mal replied, shaking his head over Liam's tangled grammar. “The feather means he's first mate. And the ring in his ear belongs to the ship. But I do believe I recognize those freckles. Come, lad, and let's see if my suspicions are correct.”

Merchants and seamen dodged discreetly out of the way as Mal and Liam walked the pier. The man with the feather in his cap and the ring in his ear stood on the planks midway between sand and water, foot propped on a square crate, hands now full of net and blue glass. His dark, freckled face creased into pleased, sun-­worn lines as Mal approached. He grinned, revealing tobacco-­blackened teeth and a single true-­gold incisor.

It was the tooth that convinced Mal.

“Cousin.” The sailor winked, turned and spat, then winked again, this time at Liam. “You've lost me twenty pieces of silver.”

“Have I?” Mal couldn't help but smile back. “Still not learned from past mistakes, Seb?”

“It was a sure bet. Even Biaz misdoubted you'd bother show your face, Malachi Serrano.”

“Doyle,” Mal corrected. “Malachi Doyle, now, cousin.”

“More fool you, taking a flatlander name.” Sebastian Serrano spat again, then dropped the tangle of rope and blown glass globes into Liam's arms. He held out a brown hand. “It won't stick.”

Malachi clasped the offered hand, felt the scars and calluses.

“It has, and will,” he said, gently. “Seb, this is my lad, Liam. Liam, my cousin Sebastian, first mate,” Mal glanced at the ship rocking behind his cousin, “On
The Laughing Queen
?”

“Aye,” Sebastian said, taking his hand back, chest expanding with obvious pride. “Three years now, it's been. She's a good ship, outruns the best of them.”

“Fair way up from novice lineman,” Mal said. “Liam, Seb and my brother Rowan used to work the rigging together.”

Liam appeared deeply engrossed in a blue glass buoy. The stare he turned on Sebastian was calculating.

“I don't like boats,” he said, quietly dismissive. “And neither does my lord.”

Surprised, Mal opened his mouth to protest, but Sebastian beat him to it.

“Your master had the makings of a great sea captain,” he corrected on a laugh. “Would have been, too, if not for the magic.” He carefully didn't look at the ring on Mal's hand. “Magic and the sea don't mix, lad, because the sea is jealous of any power but its own.” He gathered net and glass back from the boy. “Ships are like songs, Liam. Some men can carry the tune, and some can't. Now,
Queenie
here, she's sweeter than the sweetest ballad, because she's not just a merchant marine, she's also part of the King's Navy, best known for the pirates she's brought to heel.”

“Aye?” Liam considered
The Laughing Queen's
barnacled starboard. “Real pirates?”

“Are there any other sort? We've a collection of confiscated cutlass and chivs pinned to the dodger, some yet brown with old blood. Also a Black Coast flintlock, off the last corsair we drug beneath the keel.” Sebastian cupped his chin. “Mayhap you'd like to see?”

Liam was near quivering with excitement and curiosity. Mal saw the reluctant denial on his furrowing brow and spoke first.

“Go up, lad,” he said. “It's fine. I'll wait here.”

“But, my lord!” Liam looked horrified. “I don't know—­”

Sebastian interrupted, putting fingers to lips and splitting the air with a piercing whistle to match Mal's earlier attempt. Immediately a man popped head and shoulders over the deck rail.

“Oi?” the man shouted over the wind. “Whatzit?”

“Visitor, Fiennes!” Sebastian called. “Come and show him up.”

“My lord!” Liam tried again, but Mal cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Hold tight to the ropes,” he said, watching as Fiennes shimmied his way to the deck. “And don't touch the cutlasses. I'll be here when you've looked your fill.”

“Here to see the cutlasses, are you, lad?” Fiennes had even fewer teeth than Sebastian. “Well, don't stand about with your tongue hanging. Come on, then.”

Liam gave in. He plucked the rose crown from his brow, set it on the planks, and jumped after Fiennes without further protest, scurrying up the rope ladder with an unnatural ease that might have made a more observant man pause. Sebastian only shook his head, pinched a fresh twist of tobacco from a pouch at his belt, and popped it between his lips.