Scimitar Sun (10 page)

“I don’t doubt it,” Cynthia said. She directed Tim to hop into the back of the wagon. Mouse rode on the boy’s shoulder, chirping and pointing out the sights.

Though Cynthia and Marta had exchanged letters, long distance correspondence did not include much trivia or gossip, which were Marta’s specialties, and they had two years’ worth to catch up on. When they stopped in front of the newly refurbished house, Cynthia was sure her ears were actually warmed from all the talk.

“And then you show up on the horizon out of the blue, with not a letter or note to give us time to prepare! My word, what a surprise!”

“Well, I didn’t know I was coming until only a few days ago, so there was no sense in sending word. We’d have gotten here before it arrived.” She accepted Brolan’s help getting down and arched her back to relieve the aches. “The place looks wonderful, Brolan!”

“Nothin’ money and hard work wouldn’t fix, Mistress!”

“Cynthia Flaxal, you little rapscallion!” Rowland strode down the foyer steps with an alacrity that belied his years, and squeezed her in a bony embrace. “I’d have come down to greet you at the dock, but the young wife wouldn’t let me outta the kitchen. You know how these new brides are.”

“Oh, stop it, you!” Marta swatted him with the back of her hand, but her eyes were shining. “Married more than a year and he treats me like a newlywed!”

“Don’t complain, Marta,” Cynthia said, joining the rest of them as they all went inside. She marveled at the new construction, the grandeur of the old house restored. “At least your husband is
here
.”

“Now don’t you start in on Feldrin before we’ve even had our lunch!” Rowland commanded, ushering them into the breakfast room where the table was set and ready. “Besides, I’ve word of him for you, and it requires a bit of tellin’, so sit down and let me pour you some tea.”

She sat as ordered, her stomach already growling at the luscious scent of Rowland’s fresh-baked biscuits. Her nerves, however, were anything but calm; she’d had no news of Feldrin for more than four months, and feared the worst.

≈

“Ahoy,
Cutthroat
!” Sam called, easing the sheets on the catboat’s gaff-rigged sail as she rounded the last bend in the inlet. Unlike a galleon or even a corsair, the tiny catboat could sail up the hidden channel on the lightest breath of wind.

“Ahoy the catboat!” the stern watch called, stirring from a lazy perch on a stowed sail. “Hi-ya, Sam! Yer back early!”

“That I am. I made good time comin’ back. Heave a line, would ya, Dilan?” She turned the tiller hard over, eased the halyard and let the catboat’s sail pile onto the deck. She caught the tossed line and tied it to a cleat, then scrambled up the stern of the ship, from rudder to sternlight ports to taffrail. “Tie her off for me, would you? I gotta talk to the captain straight away.”

“Sure, Sam, but where’s Taylan and Dorain?” He lowered a hand and helped her up onto the deck, frowning at the bruise darkening her face and the broad bloodstain on her shirt. “What in the Nine Hells happened?”

“My two
crew
met with an
accident
,” she said, her eyes grim. “The blackguards were thinkin’ they’d have a little
fun
with their skipper, then cut me up for shark bait. Spread the word for me, would you? Anyone
else
decides that messing with me is a smart idea will be feedin’ the fish folk.”

“Uh, sure, Sam!”

She strode past him, one hand on the hilt of the dagger at her
belt.

≈

“He got a letter of marque from that rebel Marathian prince?” Cynthia asked, slack-jawed with surprise. “I remember him saying something about going south where he could do some good, but I didn’t think he’d outfit the
Pride
as a warship.”

“Well, he’s done it. Word is that he’s good at it, too. And you might want to be careful who you’re callin’ a rebel. Prince Mojani’s the new sultan of Marathia, and from the word of it, a far sight better man than his uncle ever was,” Rowland said, drizzling honey on a biscuit and taking a bite. “Anyway, a feller came up on a dhow not two weeks ago and said Feldrin’s run down five pirates in half as many months. He’s makin’ a name for himself down there.”

“He’s also using
my
ship for the one purpose I swore they would never be used!” she said, clenching her teeth against the tirade that she knew would only make her angrier.

“Seems to me, he’s doin’ what he does best,” Rowland countered, leaning back in his chair, ignoring the stern stare of his wife. “And I don’t remember you givin’ him any do’s or don’ts when you handed over
Orin’s Pride
.”

“But a letter of marque? That’s not much better than licensed piracy!”

“Captain Feldrin would never do that, Mistress!” Tim put in, surprising her with his outburst. “He’d
never
be a pirate.” Mouse nodded from upon the boy’s shoulder, and Cynthia knew he was right.

“It’d be closer to piracy if Marathia were at war with anyone, Cyn, but they’re not.” Rowland stood and started collecting the dishes, but Marta swatted his hands and started clearing the table. “Sorry, dear. Old habits. Anyway, word is he’s huntin’ down the last of the old sultan’s cronies. A bunch of ‘em made off with about half his navy and a third of his treasury during the rebellion, and have been raisin’ all Nine Hells with the merchant shipping since.” He narrowed his eyes at her as he sat back down. “You okay, Cyn? Yer lookin’ a bit pale.”

“Oh, I’m just upset, Row. Don’t worry.” She levered herself up, scowling as everyone else at the table also stood. Brolan moved to help her, but she shook off his hand impatiently. “I’m fine, really. I just need to work this off. I think I’ll walk down to the Starfish and say hello to Brulo. I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t.”

“In your state? You’ll do nothin’ of the kind, Mistress!” Brolan insisted. “I’ll drive you down to town, quick as quick!”

“Don’t worry about Feldrin, Mistress,” Marta said, returning to collect the last of the dishes, though Mouse lightened the tray of biscuits by one before she could take them away. “He’s just doing what he thinks is best.”

“He’s just doing what he can to make me angry,” Cynthia countered, collecting Tim and heading for the door. “And he’s going to get himself killed doing it!”

≈

Feldrin squinted up at the tower on the southern breakwater of Terokesh harbor, then at its twin to the north. The two grim sentinels commanded the harbor mouth and could rain death down upon any unwelcome ship foolish enough to enter. Today, however, the soldiers were waving and thrilling their victory cries down to him, pointing at the Marathian flag that flew from
Orin’s Pride’s
mainsail leech.

“Some velcome,” Johansen said, waving up at the tower as they passed.

“Not as much fer us as fer that,” Feldrin said, jerking a thumb back at the captured war galley that rowed along in their wake. “Mojani’s just happy to get one of his warships back. Let’s not be so foolish while we’re here that he thinks he can take the
Pride
as one, too.”

When Feldrin first arrived in the kingdom, the new sultan had instantly made him an offer for
Orin’s Pride
, and had increased it at every subsequent opportunity. Although he accepted Feldrin’s repeated refusals to sell with gracious charm, his veiled threats that he
could
take the ship were unmistakable.

“Oh, aye, Capt’n. Ve’ll have vatches posted day and night, be sure of that!”

“Good. Now bring her around to the quay and set bow kedges. We’ll tie stern to.”

This was also a safety measure; it limited access to the ship by land to one thin gangplank that could be protected by the two stern-mounted ballistae. Also, with the turret of the bow catapult turned around, the warehouses of the bustling waterfront were well within range of the deadly weapon. He had only used the fire catapult three times since he’d been operating under the prince’s letter of marque, but rumors of its defastating effect had spread.

A royal contingent of armored hoplites trotted doubletime down the quay and took up precision formation at the point where their gangplank would touch, albeit a respectful distance from the edge. Behind the contingent came a silk-draped sedan chair, the eight heavily muscled bearers not even sweating in the noon-day heat. Feldrin cringed, wondering if protocol would allow him to send Horace to talk to the prince in his stead.

“No way around it,” he said to himself as he rejected the deferral, checking the two heavy boarding axes at his belt as if preparing for battle. He turned to Johansen as the gangplank was secured. “Get the cargo off-loaded, and get Horace to do the haggling. It seems that I’m being summoned by His Majesty.”

“Sure, Capt’n,” the man said with a salute.

“And, Johansen, if all hell breaks loose while I’m gone,” he nodded over his shoulder at the row of buildings along the bustling waterfront, “burn it.”

“Don’t you vorry, Capt’n. If they’re so stupid as to try to take us, they’ll learn a lesson they von’t ferget.” He waved his broad hand and grinned. “Have fun, sir!”

“Bloody jokester!” Feldrin muttered as he strode across the plank to the quay, just as the drapes of the sedan chair whisked aside.

“Good Captain Brelak.” The sultry contralto of the sultan’s sister, Princess Mieshala, sounded like the coos of a flock of mourning doves. Her silk-veiled and bejeweled figure, lounging among the cushions of the sedan chair, was a feast for the eyes of any man, let alone a man who had been at sea for a month. She slowly exited the chair and curtsied, her kohled eyes never leaving his. “It is so good to see you back in our fair Terokesh.”

“Pleasure to see you, too, Princess Mieshala,” he said with a bow, careful to keep his voice neutral. He grinned inwardly at the thought of what Cynthia would have to say about the sultan’s sister: beautiful, rich and obviously put on display as a bargaining chip by her politically minded brother. She played the part well, however, always gracious and kind.

And willing
, he thought, taking her hand and touching the back of her fingers to his forehead in the formal deference.

“My brother, Sultan Mojani, Ruler of all Marathia, invites you to a feast in your honor.” One bejeweled hand swept in an arc toward her sedan chair. “I am to convey you to our humble home.”

Feldrin eyed her carefully, knowing this invitation was not one he would be allowed to decline. His gaze swept the fifty hoplites, each bearing a scimitar, javelin and bronze tower shield: the sultan’s elite. He wondered if he could re-board
Orin’s Pride
before they took or killed him, and how many would die if two ballistae bolts ripped through their ranks. He looked over his shoulder at the dozen or so grim sailors standing at the taffrail, ready to die at his command.

“I’d be pleased to attend, Princess Mieshala,” he said with another bow.

“Most excellent!” Her perfect smile beamed behind her gauzy silk veil. “Please come.”

“Of course.” He followed her to the sedan chair. “Sorry fellas,” he said to the bearers as he mounted the step. To his surprise, they didn’t even grunt when they lifted the extra weight.

Chapter Seven

Playing with Fire

Cynthia looked up at the lightkeeper’s tower with trepidation. For a change, the butterflies fluttering in her stomach had nothing to do with her pregnancy. Mouse’s nervous buzzing around her head and taps at her shoulder didn’t help. After catching up with friends yesterday, she had steeled herself to visit the lightkeeper today.

“We’re right here if you need us, Mistress Cynthia,” Brolan said, as if sensing her anxiety. He leaned his lanky frame against the wagon, looking relaxed, while Tim looked on fretfully.

“Thank you, Brolan. I don’t know how long I’ll be, though, so you may want to wait at the Starfish. I can walk that far. It’s all downhill.”

“We’re fine right here,” he said, grinning and clapping his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I may just teach young Tim here how to play Five-Card Mango, and there’s shade aplenty under the wagon.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, Mistress?” Tim asked for perhaps the twentieth time. “I could wait on the stoop.”

“I’ll be fine, Tim. Stay here with Brolan, but if I catch you hustling everyone back on Plume Island with the card games he teaches you, I’ll
not
be pleased!” Her grin made the comment a jest, but she saw immediately that he took it seriously.

“No, Mistress! I would never—”

“Relax, Tim. I’m joking. You two have fun.”

She turned to the wide stone path and started the easy climb up to the lighthouse. Although the track was wide and well-worn, she took care with every step; she couldn’t see her feet beyond her belly. Mouse tittered on her shoulder; his anxiety was infectious.

Cynthia had tried but failed to convince herself that her worry was really curiosity. What could the lightkeeper want from her, and why hadn’t he asked directly in his letter? Apparently, this was no trivial request. The second source of her concern was arcane; when last they met, she had not been a seamage. Would their conflicting fields of elemental magic now clash?

“Fire is love and water sorrow,” she muttered, as she reached the stoop and raised a hand to knock, “and only one will live to see the—”

The door flew open before her knuckles even touched the wood, startling her and frightening Mouse so badly that he dove down the neck of her shirt. A wave of heat washed over her, as if the door of a blast furnace had just opened.

“Cynthia Flaxal!” the old lightkeeper crowed, glowing like the open door of a kiln. She could feel his magic, his fire. It pressed against her in a palpable wave, pushing her back an involuntary step.

“My, my! You
have
come into your powers! Yes, I can see that you have!” He took a step back as well, though his seemed of his own volition. He motioned for her to enter. “Please, please, come in. Thank you so much for coming!”

“How could I refuse?” she said, stepping up and into the ancient lighthouse. Moving forward felt like walking against a strong, hot wind. “After all you’ve done for me, the least I could do was pay a visit and see what was so important.”