Chapter 9:

  The Admiral sat up as Evander entered their cabin with the tea the countess had suggested. It had a pungent, earthy scent that carried through the cabin.

  “I added some sugar,” Evander said with a grimace. “I didn’t think ya’d stomach it.” She sniffed at it. The scent was worse close up, strong enough to knock over a man. She took a sip and almost gagged; it was bitter and had a bite that even the sugar could not mask. “Try to think o’ it as medicine?” Evander suggested at her disgusted face. The Admiral pouted like a child, purposefully exaggerating her expression, before she sobered herself.

  “Down the hatch.” She plugged her nose and downed the stuff. Drinking hot tea quickly was ill-advised but she had no desire to sip this monstrous brew. She briefly wondered if the countess was actually trying to poison her. The bitter, biting tea had an aftertaste that was wholly unpleasant. She did her best not to show how utterly terrible and disgusting it was, but by the way her first mate’s lips quirked, she knew she had failed. He took the empty cup and pced it on her desk, before returning with one of her st biscuits from the market. It was slightly stale now, crumbling and dry, but still far tastier than the hardtack that was coming eventually.

  By the time she was done with the bun, the taste of the tea had faded to an unpleasant memory. Her head did feel better, if only slightly. She would have to thank the countess. Again. Nobles who were useful were somehow more annoying than the useless ones. She hated to be in debt to the other woman.

  “Are ya well enough to talk about the mizzenmast?” Evander enquired, flopping down in the extra chair.

  “How bad’s the damage?” She swung her legs out of the bed and reached for her boots. The crew needed to see her out and about at least once. They needed to know she was on the mend.

  “We’ll need to find a port to fix it. Or an isnd where we can uproot a tree. Dymion is confident he can rig something up but he needs a fresher tree. One that ain’t been burned.” Evander shrugged. “My gnome’s never run us wrong before.”

  “Fine. Let’s get the helmsman in here chart a course to an isnd. There’s likely some smugglers’ hidey-hole that we can take a tree from.”

  “Nearest isle takes us closer to the front,” Evander warned, tugging on his long sleeve nervously. The Admiral lifted an eyebrow. It was warm, almost unpleasantly so. The storm had left humidity in its wake.

  “Still, it’s better than limping along.” She stood and limped to the desk, looking at the massive map. “My left foot for a Star-Reader,” she muttered. Her first mate ughed, but it was a forced sound.

  “Star-Readers are hacks unless they’re Dragon Blooded.” He grinned nastily. “My ma used to go to one all the time. The only true prediction she made was that ma would come back.” He made a motion as if to spit, but did not actually do so. “Drained Ma of her money any chance she got.” He shook his head. “All sorts of nonsense she put in Ma’s head too… things like “the storm’s water will mark your son for life.” And other crap.”

  “Maybe you’re secretly a Samander,” she suggested with a wry smile. He ughed, the old resentment bleeding out of his posture.

  They bandied back and forth on the best options and settled for one of the slightly rger isnds that had once housed smugglers. The front was close, uncomfortably so, but unless the wind was unkind, there was not likely to be any demons or their ships there. The only other option was to limp along for almost a week longer, which would be infinitely more dangerous if they were caught.

  “Why the long shirt?” The Admiral asked as Evander began to copy out her orders. The quill tip snapped. He offered it back to her with an apologetic expression.

  “My others were wet from the storm.”

  “Do I not pay you enough that you cannot afford more than two shirts, d?” She lifted an eyebrow and looked down her nose at him. He swallowed and looked away.

  “Got me a cut, the night of the storm.” She knew an evasion when she heard one. Not “I got hurt”. That she could have accepted.

  “Show me.”

  The first mate grimaced and looked away. After a long moment where she thought he might refuse, he took off his shirt. There was a long, thin mark down his left forearm. It was wobbly as if he had done it himself. She touched the wound site gently. It was clean and showed no signs of infection, but also tingled to her touch. She knew the feel of it. Magic. Not Epelda’s magic for certain, this had a different resonance, one that was entirely unfamiliar. She felt anger well up, closing her throat.

  “Who?” she demanded, her grip tightening on him. Her voice sounded hoarse. “I’ll throw them in the brig.”

  “It’s not what you think,” he protested. “They didn’t harm me! I just… I got them to swear to protect the ship, the crew… you.”

  She let him go and stormed across the small cabin, getting as much space from her first mate as possible.

  “That was not your responsibility.” She kept her back to him but heard him getting his shirt back on. The anger had taken the wind from her sails and now she simply wanted to sleep. He had made some kind of deal with one of the Samanders! So much for only the red-haired being Firetouched. She seethed, unsure of how to proceed with this information. “Was the cost high?”

  “No, Grand Admiral.” Evander’s tone was respectful, careful. She had frightened him. Good. He deserved it.

  Ael took a breath, tried to find her centre and her calm. She let herself feel the rocking motion of the ship, let herself hear the waves as they hit the boat. Things she blocked out, the sounds of the crew above, shouting and ughter and merriment. The sounds of hammers and saws as some of the crew were trying in vain to fix the mizzenmast en route. Ships were loud, when you let them be.

  “Grand Admiral? Orders?” She turned back toward him, squaring her shoulders and became the Grand Admiral in stance, donning her title like armour.

  “We are going into potentially dangerous territory. Tell the passengers that I expect them above deck as well. I want to assess how they move and fight.” He looked confused, but nodded.

  “When, ma’am?”

  “An hour.” She gred at him. “Besides the scratch, are you hurt or in debt beyond what is acceptable?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Will you tell me your task?” She would not order him to do so, in case the spell or blood oath forbade it. She would not put his life at risk for her own reasons.

  “To keep a personal secret from all… even you, ma’am.” He looked at his feet.

  “Personal to them?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She swallowed down her anger and fear, and took a step toward him. He continued to stare at his rge feet, as if his stockings contained the secrets of the universe.

  “Fine. I won’t throw them overboard when I’m done.” She sighed an exaggerated sigh, and shook her head. “Evander… next time, don’t make deals with finger-wigglers. Please?” He smiled wanly at her and nodded. “Good. Go get the Samanders ready to fight.”

  Once he was gone, she pressed her face into a pillow and screamed.

  These Samanders would be the death of her.