Rise Of Empire (68 page)

“That was pleasant,” Hadrian said after the two had safely reached the galley and closed the door behind them.

“What was?” Poe asked, dishing out the last of the stew for the midshipmen.

“Oh, nothing really. A few crewmen just tried to murder Royce.”

“What?” Poe almost dropped the whole kettle.

“Now can I kill people?” Royce asked, stepping into the corner and putting his back against the wall. He had an evil look on his face.

“Who tried to murder him?”

“Bernie,” Royce replied. “So what am I supposed to do now? Lie awake at night waiting for him and his buddies—I’m sorry, his
mates
—to knife me?”

“Poe, would it be possible for me and Royce to sleep in here at night?”

“In the galley? I suppose. Won’t be too comfortable, but if Royce is always on time for his watch, and if you tell Mr. Bishop you want him to help with the nighttime boils, he might allow it.”

“Great, I’ll do that. While I’m gone, Poe, can you go below and get us a couple of hammocks that we can hang in here? Royce, maybe you can rig a lock for the door?”

“It’s better than being bait.”

Royce worked both the second dogwatch and the first watch, which kept him aloft from sunset until midnight. By the time he returned, Hadrian had obtained permission for Royce to sleep in the galley. Poe had moved up what little gear they had and strung two hammocks between the walls of the narrow room.

“How is it?” Royce asked, entering the darkened galley and finding Hadrian hanging in the netting.

“Hmm?” he asked, waking up. “Oh, okay, I guess. The room is too narrow for me. I feel like I’m being bent in half, but it should be fine for you. How was your watch? Did you see Defoe?”

“Never took my eyes off old
Bernie,”
he said, grinning and dodging a pot that hung from the overhead beam. Hadrian knew Royce must have enjoyed a bit of revenge on Bernie. If there was ever a place where Royce held an advantage, it was a
hundred feet in the air, dangling from beams and ropes in the dark of night.

Hadrian shifted his weight, causing his hammock to swing. “What did you do?”

“Actually, I didn’t do anything, but that was what drove him crazy. He’s still sweating.”

“So he did recognize you.”

“Oh yeah, and it was like there were two moons out tonight, his face was so pale.”

Royce checked the lines and the mountings of the hammock Poe had installed for him, and looked generally pleased with the work.

“To be honest, I’m surprised Bernie didn’t suffer an accidental fall,” Hadrian said.

Royce shook his head. “Two accidents off my mast is just bad planning. Besides, Bernie wasn’t trying to kill me.”

“Sure looked that way from where I was standing. And it seemed pretty organized too.”

“You think so?” he asked, sitting on the crate of biscuits Poe had brought up for the morning’s breakfast. “It’s not how I would do it. First, why stage the fight in a room full of witnesses? If they had killed me, they would hang. Second, why attack me below? Like I said, the sea is the perfect place to dispose of a body, and the closer to the rail you get your victim, the easier it is.”

“Then what do you think they were up to?”

Royce pursed his lips and shook his head. “I have no idea. If it’s a diversion to rifle our belongings, why not hold it topside? For that matter, why bother with a diversion at all? There have been plenty of times while we were on deck to go through our stuff.”

“You think it was just to intimidate us?”

“If it was, it wasn’t Bernie’s idea. Threatening to kill me but not finishing the job is famously fatal. He would know that.”

“So Derning put them up to it?”

“Maybe, but …I don’t know. Derning doesn’t seem like someone Bernie would take orders from—especially not such stupid orders.”

“Makes sense. So then—”

A muffled thump, like another body hitting the deck, brought them to their feet. Hadrian threw open the door of the galley and cautiously looked out.

The larboard watch was on duty, but rather than the typical watch-and-snooze routine, they were hard at work, running a boat drill. They had hoisted the longboat from the yard and had it over the side, where it bumped the gunwale once more before being lowered into the sea.

“Odd time for a lifeboat drill,” Wyatt said, walking toward them from the shelter of the forecastle.

“Trouble sleeping?” Royce asked.

Wyatt beamed a grin. “Look who else is on duty,” he told them, pointing at the quarterdeck, where Sentinel Thranic, Mr. Beryl, Dr. Levy, and Bernie Defoe stood talking.

They slipped around the forecastle, moving quickly to the bow. Looking over the rail, Hadrian saw six men rowing toward a nearby light.

“Another ship,” Royce muttered.

“Really?”

“A small single-mast schooner. No flag.”

“Is there anything in the longboat?” Hadrian asked. “If that’s payment going to—”

Royce shook his head. “Just the crew.”

They watched as the sound of the oars faded, then waited. Hadrian strained, peering into the darkness, but all he could see were the bobbing light of the little boat and the one marking its destination.

“Boat’s coming back,” Royce announced, “and there’s an extra head now.”

Wyatt squinted. “Who would they be picking up in the middle of the night from Delgos?”

They watched as the longboat returned. Just as Royce had said, there was an additional man—a passenger. Wrapped in ship’s blankets, he was small and thin, with a long pasty face and wild, white hair. He looked to be very old, far too old to be any use as a sailor. He came aboard and spoke to Thranic and Dr. Levy at length. The old man’s things were gathered and deposited beside him. One of the bags came loose and two weighty leather-bound books spilled onto the bleached deck. “Careful, my boy,” the old man cautioned the sailor. “Those are one of a kind and, like me, are very old and sadly fragile.”

“Gather his things and take them to Dr. Levy’s quarters,” Thranic ordered. Glancing toward the bow, he stopped abruptly. He glared at them, licking his thin lips in thought, then slowly approached. As he did, he held his dark cloak tight, his shoulders raised to protect his neck from the cold wind. Between this and his stooped back, he resembled a scavenger bird.

“What are all of you doing on deck? None of you are part of the larboard watch.”

“Off duty, sir,” Wyatt answered for them. “Just getting a bit of fresh air.”

Thranic peered at Hadrian and took a step toward him. “You’re the cook, aren’t you?”

Without thinking, Hadrian felt at his side for the hilt of his absent sword. Something about the sentinel made him flinch. Sentinels were always scary, but this one was absolutely chilling. Returning his gaze was like staring into the eyes of restrained madness.

“You joined this voyage along with …” Thranic’s eyes shifted to Royce. “This one—yes, the nimble fellow—the one so good at climbing. What’s your name? Melborn, isn’t it? Royce Melborn? I heard you were seasick. How odd.”

Royce remained silent.

“Very odd, indeed.”

“Sentinel Thranic?” the old man called, his weak voice barely making the trip across the deck. “I would rather like to get out of the damp wind, if I could.” He coughed.

Thranic stared a moment longer at Royce, then pivoted sharply and left them.

“Not exactly the kind of guy you want taking an interest in you, is he?” Wyatt offered.

With the longboat back aboard, the captain appeared on the quarterdeck and ordered a new course—due east, into the wind.

A
nother dispatch from Sir Breckton, sir,” the clerk announced, handing a small scroll to the imperial chancellor. The elderly man returned to the desk in his little office and read the note. A scowl grew across his face.

“The man is incorrigible!” the chancellor burst out to no one, then pulled a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped his quill.

The door opened unexpectedly and the chancellor jumped. “Can’t you knock?”

“Sorry, Biddings, did I startle you?” the Earl of Chadwick asked, entering with his exquisite floor-length cape trailing behind him. He had a pair of white gloves draped over one forearm as he bit into a bright red apple.

“You’re always startling me. I think you get a sadistic pleasure from it.”

Archibald smiled. “I saw the dispatch arrive. Is there any word from the
Emerald Storm?”

“No, this is from Breckton.”

“Breckton? What does he want?” Archibald sat in the armchair opposite the chancellor and rested his booted feet on a footstool.

“No matter how many times I tell him to wait and be patient, he refuses to grasp that we know more than he does. He wants permission to attack Ratibor.”

Archibald sighed. “Again? I suppose you see now what I’ve had to put up with all these years. He and Enden are so headstrong I—”

“Were,” the chancellor said, correcting him. “Sir Enden died in Dahlgren.”

Ballentyne nodded. “And wasn’t that a waste of a good man?” He took another bite and, with his mouth still full, went on. “Do you need me to write him personally? He’s my knight, after all.”

“What would help is to be able to tell him
why
he doesn’t need to attack.”

Archibald shook his head. “Saldur and Ethelred are still insisting on secrecy regarding the—”

The chancellor raised a hand, stopping him. Archibald looked confused and the chancellor pointed at the chambermaid on her knees scrubbing the floor near the windows of his office.

Archibald rolled his eyes. “Oh please. Do you really think the scrub girl is a spy?”

“I’ve always found it best to err on the side of caution. She doesn’t have to be a spy to get you hanged for treason.”

“She doesn’t even know what we’re talking about. Besides, look at her. It isn’t likely she’ll be bragging in some pub. You don’t go out at night boasting in bars, do you, lass?”

Ella shook her head and refused to look up, so that her brown sweat-snarled hair continued to hang in her face.

“See!” Archibald said in a vindicated tone. “It’s like censoring yourself because there is a couch or a chair in the room.”

“I was referring to a more subtle kind of danger,” Biddings
told him. “Should something happen. Something unfortunate with the plan, such that it fails—someone always has to be blamed. How fortunate it would be to discover a loquacious earl who had boasted details to even a mindless chambermaid.”

Archibald’s smirk faded immediately.

“The third son of a dishonored baron doesn’t rise to the position of imperial chancellor by being stupid,” Biddings said.

“Point taken.” Archibald glanced back at the scrub girl with a new expression of loathing. “I had best return to Saldur’s office or he’ll be looking for me. Honestly, Biddings, I’m really starting to detest staying in this palace.”

“She still won’t see you?”

“No, I can’t get past her secretary. That Lady Amilia is a sly one. Plays all innocent and doe-eyed, but she guards the empress with ruthless determination. And Saldur and Ethelred are no help at all. They insist she plans to marry Ethelred. It has to be a lie. I simply can’t imagine Modina wanting that old moose.”