The Emerald Storm As the ship lurched once more Hadrian stumbled and nearly hit his head on the overhead beam. It would have been his third time that day. The lower decks of the Emerald Storm provided meager headroom and precious little light. An obstacle course of sea chests, ditty bags, crude wooden benches, tables that swung from ropes, and close to one hundred and thirty men all crammed into the berth deck. Hadrian staggered his way aft dodging the majority of the starboard watch, most of whom were asleep, swaying in hammocks strung from the same thick wooden crossbeams that Hadrian had nearly cracked his skull on. It was not merely the clutter or the shifting of the ship that made Hadrian stagger. He had been feeling nauseated since sunset.
The Emerald Storm had been at sea for nearly fifteen hours and the enigma of life aboard ship was slowly revealing itself. Hadrian had spent many years in the company of professional soldiers and recognized that each branch of the military held its own jargon, traditions, and idiosyncrasies, but he had never set foot on a ship. He knew he could be certain of only two things. He had a lot of learning to do and little time to do it.
He had already picked up several important facts, such as where you relieved yourself which, to his surprise, was at the head of the ship. A precarious experience as he had to hang out over the sea at the base of the bowsprit. This might be second nature to sailors, and easy for Royce, but it gave Hadrian pause.
Another highly useful bit of information was at least a cursory understanding about the chain of command. It was easy to see that there were officers amp;mdashnoblemen mostly-and skilled tradesmen, who held a higher rank than the general seamen, but Hadrian could also tell there was a sub-stratum within these broad classes. There were different ranks of officers and even more subtle levels of seniority, influence, and jurisdiction. He could not expect to penetrate such a complex hierarchy on his first day. All he managed to determine with any clarity was that the boatswain and his mates where the ones charged with making sure the seamen did their jobs. They were quite persuasive with their short rope whips and kept a keen eye on the crew at all times. As such, they were the ones he watched carefully.
The ship's crew divided into two watches, and while one worked the ship, the other rested, slept, or ate. Lieutenant Bishop placed Royce on the starboard watch assigned to the maintop. His job was to work the rigging on the main or center mast. This put him under boatswain Bristol Bennet and his three mates. Hadrian had seen their like before. Drunks, vagrants, and thugs, they would never have amounted to much on land, but aboard ship they held power and status. This chance to repay others for their mistreatment made them cruel and quick to punish. Hadrian still waited to discover his watch assignment, but he hoped it would be the same as Royce.
He had been lucky so far. This being the first day out, meals had been little more than placing out fresh foods from the recent stay at port. Fruit, fresh bread, and unsalted cooked meats were merely handed out with no actual cooking required. Consequently, Hadrian's talents remained untested, but time was running out. He knew how to cook, of course. He had prepared meals for years using little more than a campfire, but that had mainly been for himself and Royce. He didn't know how to cook for an entire ship's crew. Needing to find out exactly what they expected drove him to wander in hopes of finding Wyatt.
"The Princess of Melengar rules there now," Hadrian heard a young lad say.
He didn't look to be much more than sixteen. A waif of a boy with thin whiskers, freckles darkened by days in the sun, and curly hair cut in a bowl-like fashion except for a short ponytail he tied with a black chord. He sat with Wyatt, Grady, and a few other men around a swaying table illuminated by a candle melted to the center of a copper plate. They were playing cards and the giant shadows they cast only made Hadrian's approach more disorienting.
"She doesn't rule Ratibor, she's the mayor," Wyatt corrected the boy as he laid a card on the pile before him.
"What's the difference?"
"She was appointed, lad."
"What's that mean?" the boy asked, as he tried to decide which card to play, holding his hand so tight to his chest he could barely see them himself.
"It means she didn't just take over, the people of the city asked her to run things."
"But she can still execute people, right?"
"I suppose."
"Sounds like a ruler to me." The boy laid a card with a wide grin indicating that at least he thought it was a surprisingly good play.
"Sounds like them people of Ratibor are dumb as dirt," Grady said, gruffly. His expression betrayed his irritation at the boy's discard. "They finally get the yoke off their backs and right away they ask for a new one."
"Grady!" said a man with a white kerchief on his head. "I'm from Ratibor, you oaf!"
"Exactly! Thanks for proving me point, Bernie," Grady replied, slamming his play on the table so hard several surrounding seamen groaned in their hammocks. Grady laughed at his own joke and the rest at the table chuckled good-naturedly, except Bernie from Ratibor.
"Hadrian!" Wyatt greeted him warmly as the new cook staggered up to them like a drunk. "We were just talking about land affairs. Most of these poor sods haven't been ashore in over a year and we were filling them in on the news about the war."
"Which has beenbloody cracking, seeing as how we didn't even know there was one," Grady said, feigning indignation.
"We were just in dock though," Hadrian said. "I would have thought-"
"That don't mean nuttin'," one of the other men said. With next to no hair and few teeth, he appeared to be the oldest at the table and possibly the entire ship. He had a silver earring that glinted with the candlelight, a tattoo of a mermaid that wrapped around his forearm, and he, too, wore a white kerchief on his head. "Most of this 'ere crew is pressed. The captain would be barmy to let them touch solid ground in a port. He and Mister Bishop would be the only ones left to rig her!"
This brought a round of laughter and garnered irritated growls from those trying to sleep.
"You don't look so good," Wyatt mentioned to Hadrian.
He shook his head miserably. Looking around at the others and said, "It's been a long time since I've been on a ship. Does the Storm always rock so much?"
"Hmm?" Wyatt glanced at him then laughed. "This? This here is nothing. You won't even notice it in a day or so." He watched the next man at the table play his card. "We're still in the sound. Wait until we hit the open sea. You might want to sit. You're sweating."
Hadrian touched his face and felt the moisture. "Funny, I feel chilled if anything."
"Have a seat," Wyatt said. "Poe, give him your spot."
"Why me?" the young boy asked insulted.
"Because I said so." Poe's expression showed that was not enough for him to give up one of the limited places. "And because I am a quartermaster and you're a seaman, but even more importantly, because Mister Bishop appointed you cook's mate."
"He did?" Poe asked and blinked, a smile crossing his face.
"Congratulations," Wyatt said. "Now, you might want to make a good impression on your new boss and move your infernal arse!"
The boy promptly stood and pretended to clean the bench with an invisible duster. "After you, sir!" he said, with a bow and an exaggerated flourish.
"Does he know anything about cooking?" Hadrian asked dubiously, taking the seat.
"Sure, sure!" Poe declared exuberantly. "I know plenty. You just wait. I'll show ya."
"Good, I don't feel up to working with food yet." Hadrian let his head drop into his hands. The old man next to Wyatt tossed down his card and the whole group groaned in agony.
"You bloody bastard, Drew!" Grady barked at him, tossing what remained of his cards onto the pile. The others did the same.
Drew grinned, showing his few yellowed teeth, and collected the tiny pile of silver tenents. "That's it for me, boys. Goodnight."
"Night, Drew ya lousy Lanksteer!" Grady said, shooing him away as if he were a bug. "We can talk at breakfast, eh?"
"Sure, Grady," Drew said. "Oh, that reminds me, I heard something right funny tonight when I was reefing the top'sl. We're going to be taking on a passenger to help find the horn. How stupid are these landlubbers. It's only the most well-known point on the Sharon! Anyway remind me at breakfast and I'll tell ya about it. It's a real hoot it is. Night now."
Most of the rest of the men headed off, leaving just Wyatt, Grady, Poe and Hadrian.
"You should turn in as well," Wyatt told Poe.
"I'm not tired," he protested.
"I didn't ask if you were tired, did I?"
"I want to stay up and celebrate my promotion."
"Off with ya before I report you for disobeying a superior."
Poe scowled and stomped off looking for his hammock.
"You too, Grady," Wyatt told him.
The old seaman looked at Wyatt suspiciously, then leaned over and quietly asked, "Why you trying to get rid of me, Deminthal?"
"Because I'm tired of looking at that ugly scowl of yours, that's why."
"Codswallop!a he hissed. "You wanna be alone to talk about the you-know-what, don't ya? Both of you are in on it. I can tell, and that Royce fellow he's in too. How many more you got, Wyatt? Room for another? I'm pretty good in a fight."
"Shut up, Grady," Wyatt told him. "Talk like that can get you hanged."
"Okay, okay," Grady said, holding up his palms. "Just letting you know, that's all." He got up and headed for his own hammock casting glances back over his shoulder several times until he disappeared into the forest of swinging men.
"What was that all about?" Hadrian asked, hooking a thumb toward Grady's retreating figure.
"I don't know," Wyatt replied. "There's always one sailor on board any ship looking for a mutiny. Grady seems to be the Emerald Storm's. Ever since he signed on he's been thinking there's a conspiracy going on-mostly because he wants there to be, I think. He has issues with authority, Grady does." Wyatt started gathering up the scattered deck of cards into a pile. "So, what's your story?"
"How do you mean?" Hadrian asked.
"Why are you and Royce here? I stuck my neck out getting you on board. I think I have a right to know why."
"We're looking for a safer line of work and thought we'd try sailing," Hadrian offered. Wyatt's face showed he was not buying. "We're on a job, but I can't tell you more than that."
"Does it have to do with the secret cargo?"
Hadrian blinked. "It's possible. What is the secret cargo?"
"Weapons. Steel swords, heavy shields, imperial-made crossbows, armor-enough to outfit a good-size army. It came aboard at the last minute, hauled up in the middle of the night just before we sailed."
"Interesting," Hadrian mused. "Any idea where we're headed?"
"Nope, but that's not unusual. Captains usually keep that information to themselves and Captain Seward is no different." Wyatt shuffled the cards absently. "So, you don't know where the ship is going, and you weren't aware of the cargo. This job didn't come with much in the way of information, did it?"
"What about you?" Hadrian turned the tables. "What are you doing here?"
"I could say I was working for a living, and for me it would actually make sense, but like you I'm looking for answers."
"To what?"
"To where my daughter is." Wyatt paused a moment, his eyes glancing at the candle. "Allie was taken a week ago. I was out finding work and while I was gone the Imps grabbed her."
"Grabbed her? Why?"
Wyatt lowered his voice, "Allie is part elven, and the New Empire is not partial to their kind. Under a new law anyone with even a drop of elf blood is subject to arrest. They've been rounding them up and putting them on ships, but no one can tell me where they've taken them. So, here I am."
"But what makes you think this ship will go to the same place?"
"I take it you haven't ventured down to the waist hold yet?" He paused a second, then added, "That's the bottom of the ship, below the water line. Ship stores are there, as well as livestock like goats, chickens, and cows. Sailors on report get the duty to pump the bilge. It's a miserable job on account of the manure mixing with the seawater that leaks in. It's also where-right now-they have more than a hundred elves chained up in an area half this size."
Hadrian nodded with a grimace at the thought.
"You and Royce gave me a break once because of my daughter. Why was that?"
"That was Royce's call. You need to take that up with him. Although I wouldn't do that for a while, he's sicker than I am. I've never seen him so miserable and this sea business is making him irritable."
Wyatt nodded. "My daughter's the same way on water. Pitiful little thing, she's like a cat on a piece of driftwood. It takes her forever to get accustomed to the rocking." He paused a moment looking at the candle, then said, "I got the impression the two of you might be sympathetic. Maybe, if you finish this job, you might be willing to help me a little-a turn for a turn?"
"I thought you got us aboard to pay off a debt."
Wyatt sighed.
"I don't know-maybe." Hadrian glanced at the mass of men around him and lowered his voice to a whisper. "The job we're on is important, and we can't afford to be distracted, but if the situation presents itself, we might be able to help. Something tells me I won't have much trouble convincing Royce to stick his neck out for this one."
Hadrian felt the nausea rising in his stomach once more. His face must have betrayed his misery.
"Don't worry. Seasickness usually only lasts three days," Wyatt assured him, as he put the cards in his breast pocket. "After that both of you will be fine."
"If we can stay on board that long. I don't know anything about being a ship's cook."
Wyatt smiled. "Don't worry. I've got you covered. Poe will do most of the work. I know he looks young, but he'll surprise you.
"So, how is it that I get an assistant?"
"As ship's cook, you rank as a petty officer. Don't get all excited though. You're still under of the boatswains and their mates, but it does grant you the services of Ordinary Seaman Poe. It also exempts you from the watches. That means so long as the ship's meals are on schedule, the rest of your time is your own. What you need to know is that breakfast is promptly at the first bell of the forewatch," Wyatt paused. "That's the first time you'll hear a single bell toll after eight bells is rung just after the sun breaks above the horizon.
"So have Poe light the galley fires shortly after middle watch. He'll know when that is. Tell him to make skillygalee-that's oatmeal gruel. Don't forget biscuits. Biscuits get served at every meal. At eight bells, the men are piped to breakfast. Each mess will send someone to you with a messkid, sorta like a wooden bucket. Your job will be to dish out the food. Have Poe make some tea as well. The men will drink beer and rum at dinner and supper, but not at breakfast and no one on board will risk drinking straight water."
"Risk?"
"Water sits in barrels for months, or years if a ship is on a long voyage. It gets rancid. Tea and coffee are okay 'cause they're boiled and have a little flavor. Coffee is expensive though, and reserved for the officers. The crew and the midshipmen eat first. After that, Basil, the officers' cook, will arrive to make meals for the lieutenants and captain. Just stay out of his way.
"For dinner make boiled pork. Have Poe start boiling it right after Basil leaves. The salted meat will throw off a thick layer of fat. Half of that goes to the top captains to grease the rigging, the other half you can keep. You can sell it to tallow merchants at the next port for a bit of coin, but don't give it to the men. It will make you popular if you do, but it can also give them scurvy and the captain won't like it. Have Poe boil some vegetables and serve them together as a stew, and don't forget the biscuits."
"So, I tell Poe what to make and dish it out, but I don't actually do any cooking?"
Wyatt smiled. "That's the benefit of being a petty officer; sadly however you only get a seaman's rate of pay. For supper, just serve what's left over from dinner, grog and, of course, biscuits. After that, have Poe clean up and like I said, the rest of the day is open to you. Sound easy?"
"Maybe, if I could stand straight and keep my stomach from doing back-flips."
"Listen to Poe. He'll take good care of you. Now you'd best get back in your hammock. Trust me, it helps. Oh, and just so you know, you would have been wrong."
"About what?" Hadrian asked.
"About thinking saiing was a safer line of work."
It was still dark when the captain called "All hands!"
A cold wind had risen and in the dark hours before dawn a light rain sprayed the deck adding a wet chill to the seasick misery that had already deprived Hadrian of most of his sleep. During the night, the Emerald Storm passed by the Isle of Niel and now approached the Point of Man. The Point was a treacherous headland shoal that marked the end of Avryn Bay and the start of the Sharon Sea. In the dark, it was difficult to see the shoals, but the sound was unmistakable. Somewhere ahead there came the rhythmic, thundering boom of waves crashing against the point.
The below decks emptied as the boatswain and his mates roused all the men from both watches with their starter ropes, driving them up to stations.
"Bring her about!" shouted the captain from his perch on the quarterdeck. The dignified figure of Lieutenant Bishop echoed the order, which Mister Temple repeated.
"Helm-a-lee!" shouted the captain. Once more, the order echoed across the decks. Wyatt spun the ship's great wheel.
"Tacks and sheets!" Lieutenant Bishop barked to the crew.
At the mizzen, main, and foremasts the other lieutenants shouted more orders which the boatswains reinforced.
Hadrian stood on the main deck in the dark and drizzling rain, unsure of his station or even if he had one. He was a cook after all, but it seemed even a cook was expected to lend a hand on deck when necessary. He still felt ill, but Royce appeared worse. Hadrian watched as Boatswain Bristol, a big burly man, ordered him up the ropes waving his short whip menacingly. Drained of color, Royce's face and hands stood out pale in the dark, his eyes unfocused and empty. He reluctantly moved up the main mast's ratlines, but he did not display any of the acrobatics of the day before. Instead, he crawled miserably and hesitated partway up. He hovered in the wet rigging as if he might fall. From below Bristol cursed at him until, at last, he moved upward once more. Hadrian imagined that the higher into the rigging Royce went, the more pronounced the sway of the ship would be. Between that, the slippery wet ropes, and the cold wind-driven rain, he did not envy his friend.
Several men were working the ropes that controlled the direction of the sails, but others, like him, remained idle waiting in lines, which the boatswains formed. There was a tension evident in the silence of the crew. The booming of the headlands grew louder and closer, sounding like the pounding of a giant's hammer or the heartbeat of a god. They seemed to be flying blindly into the maw of some enormous unseen beast that would swallow them whole. The reality, Hadrian imagined, would not be much different should they come too close to the shoals.
All eyes watched the figure of Captain Seward, anticipating something. The ship was turning, he could tell by the feel of the wind and the direction of the rain. The sails once full and taut began to flutter and collapsed as the bow crossed over into the face of the wind.
"Main'sl haul!" the captain suddenly shouted, and the crew cast off the bow lines and braces.
Seeing the movements Hadrian realized the strategy. They were attempting a windward tack around the dangerous point, which meant the wind would be blowing the ship's hull toward the treacherous rocks even as they struggled to reset the sails to catch the wind from the other side. The danger came from the lack of maneuverability caused by empty sails during the tack. Without the wind driving the ship, the rudder could not push against the water and turn her. If the ship could not come about fully, it would not be able to catch the wind again. If that happened they would drift into the shoals, which would shatter the timbered hull like an eggshell and cast the cargo and crew into a dark angry sea.
Hadrian took hold of the rope in his line and along with several others pulled the yards round, repositioning the sails to catch the wind as soon as she was able. The rope was slick and the wind jerked the coil so roughly that it took the whole line to pull the yards safely into position.
There was another deafening boom as the breakwater exploded and over the port bow a burst of white spray shot skyward. The vessel was turning fast now, pulling away from the foam, struggling to get clear. No sooner had the bow cleared the wind then he heard the captain, "Now! Meet her! Hard over!"
His voice was nearly lost as another powerful wave rammed the rocks just beside them, throwing the Emerald Storm's bow upward with a rough lurch that staggered them all. On the quarterdeck, Wyatt followed the order, spinning the wheel back, checking the swing before the ship could turn too far and lose her stern into the rocks.
Overhead Hadrian heard a scream.
Looking up he saw the figure of a man fall from the mainsail rigging. His body landed a dozen steps away with a sickening thud. All eyes looked at the prone figure lying like a dark stain on the deck, but none dared move from their stations. Hadrian strained to see who it was. The man lay face down and in the dim light it was difficult to tell anything.
Could it be Royce?
Normally he would never have questioned his friend's climbing skills, but with his sickness, the motion of the ship, and his inexperience, it was possible he could have slipped.
"Haul off all!" Mister Temple shouted, ignoring the fallen man and the crew pulled upon the sheets and braces, once more capturing the wind. The sails bloomed full and Hadrian felt the lurch under his feet as the ship burst forward once more, heaving into the waves now steering out to the open sea.
"Doctor Levy on deck!" Mister Bishop shouted.
Hadrian rushed over the instant he could, but stopped short seeing the tattoo of the mermaid on the dead man's forearm.
"It's Edgar Drew, sir. He's dead, sir!" Bristol shouted to the quarterdeck, as he knelt next to the fallen man.
Several sailors gathered around the body, glancing upward at the mainsail shrouds until the boatswain's mates took them to task. Hadrian thought he could see Royce up near the top yard, but in the dark he could not be sure. Still, he must have been close by when Drew fell.
The boatswain broke up the crowd and Hadrian, once more unsure of his duty, stood idle. The first light of dawn arrived revealing a dull gray sky above a dull gray sea that lurched and rolled like a terrible dark beast.
"Cook!" A voice barked sharply.
Hadrian turned to see a young boy not much older than Poe, but wearing the jacket and braid of an officer. He stood with a firm-set jaw and a posture so stiff he seemed made of wood. His cheeks were flushed red with the cool night air and rainwater ran off the end of his nose.
"Aye, sir?" Hadrian replied, taking a guess it would be the right response.
"We are securing from all hands. You're free to fire the stove and get the meal ready."
Not knowing anything better to say Hadrian replied, "Aye, aye." He turned to head for the galley.
"Cook!" the boy-officer snapped, disapprovingly.
Hadrian pivoted as sharply as he could, recalling some of his military training. "Aye, sir?" he responded once more feeling a bit stupid at his limited vocabulary.
"You neglected to salute me," he said, hotly. "I'm putting you on report. What's your name?"
"Hadrian, sir. Blackwater, sir."
"I'll have the respect of you men even if I must flog you to obtain it! Do you understand? Now let's see that salute."
Hadrian imitated the salute he had seen others perform by placing his knuckles to his forehead.
"That's better seaman. Don't let it happen again."
"Aye, aye, sir."
It felt good to get down out of the rain and wind, and Poe met him on the way to the galley. The knew his way around the kitchen well, which was no doubt why Wyatt suggested him. They fired up the stove and he watched him go to work cooking the morning oatmeal, adding butter and brown sugar in proper amounts and asking Hadrian to taste test it. Despite its name, the skillygalee was surprisingly good. Hadrian could not say the same about the biscuits, which were rock hard. Poe had not made them. He merely fetched the round stones from the bread room where boxes of them were stored. Hadrian's years of soldiering had made him familiar with hardtack, as they were known on land. The ubiquitous biscuits lasted forever but were never very filling. They were so hard that you had to soften them in tea or soup before eating.
With the meal made, stewards from the mess arrived to gather their share and carry them below.
Hadrian entered the berth deck, helping the mess steward carry the last of the servings. "Bloody show off couldn't even make it up the lines," Jacob Derning was saying loudly. The men of the tops, and the petty officers, sat together at the tables as befitted their status on board, while others lay scattered with their copper plates in amid the sacks and chests. Jacob looked like he was holding court at the center table. All eyes were on him as he spoke with grand gestures. On his head, he wore a bright blue kerchief, as did everyone on the foretop crew.
"It's a different story with 'im when the seas heaving and the lines are wet," Jacob went on. "You don't see him prancing then."
"He looked scared to me," Bristol the boatswain added. "Thought I was gonna have to go up and wallop him good to get him going again."
"Royce was fine," said a thin gangly fellow with a white kerchief tied over his head and a thick, blonde walrus mustache. Hadrian did not know his name but recognized him as the captain of the maintop. "Just seasick that's all. Once he was aloft he reefed the top'sl just fine, albeit a bit oddly."
"Make excuses for him all ya want, Dime," Jacob told him, pointing a finger his way, "but he's a queer one he is, and I find it more than a little dodgy that his first day aloft finds his fellow mate falling to his death."
"You suggesting Royce killed Drew?" Dime asked.
"I ain't saying nuttin', just think it is odd is all. 'O course you'd know better what went on up there, wouldn't you, Dime?"
"I didn't see it. Bernie was with him on the top'sl yard when he fell. He says Drew just got careless. I've seen it 'afore. Fools like 'im skylarking in the sheets. Bernie says he was trying to walk the yard when the ship lurched 'cause 'o that burst from the shoal. He lost his footing. Bernie tried to grab him as he hung onto the yard, but the wet made him slip off."
"Drew walking the yard in a rainstorm?" Jacob laughed. "Not likely."
"And where was Royce during all this?" Bristol asked.
Dime shook his head. "I dunno, didn't see him till later when he turned up at the masthead."
"Bernie was playing cards with him last night, wasn't he? I heard Drew walked away with a big pot."
"Now you're saying Bernie killed him?" A third fellow with a red kerchief asked. Hadrian had never seen him before, but guessed he must be the captain of the mizzenmast, as the tops captains along with the boatswains seemed to dine together at the same table.
"No, but I'm saying the cook was there and he and Royce are mates aren't they? I think-" Jacob stopped short when he spotted Hadrian. "Bloody good thing you're a better cook than your mate is a topman or Mister Temple's liable to chuck you both in the deep."
Hadrian said nothing. He looked around for Royce, but could not find him, which was not too surprising as he guessed his friend would not want to be anywhere near food.
"Might want to let your mate know I've asked Bristol here to have a word with Mister Beryl about him see i›"Beryl?" Bristol responded puzzled. "I was gonna talk to Wesley."
"Bugger that," Jacob said. "Wesley's useless. He's a bleeding joke, ain't he?"
"I can't go over his head to Beryl," Bristol said, defensively. "Wesley was Watch Officer when it happened."
"Are you barmy? What're you scared of? Think Wesley's gonna have at ya for going to Beryl? All Wesley will do is report you. That's all he ever does. He's a boy and hasn't grown a spine yet in that midshipman's uniform 'o his. Only reason he's on the Storm is 'cause his daddy is Lord Belstrad."
"We need to serve the midshipmen next," Poe reminded Hadrian, urgently tugging at his sleeve. "They mess in the wardroom aft."
Hadrian dropped off the messkid, hanging it from a hook the way he saw Poe do, and gave Jacob one last glance only to find the fore captain grinning malevolently.
The midshipmen's mess was far smaller and not much more comfortable than the crew's quarters. It was a tiny room aft on the berth deck that creaked loudly as the ship's hull lurched in the waves. Normally, Basil delivered the food he cooked for the officers, but this morning he was kept particularly busy working on the lieutenants' and captain's meal and asked them for help in delivering the food to the midshipmen's mess.
"What are you doing in here?" the biggest midshipman asked abruptly as Hadrian and Poe entered. Hadrian almost answered when he realized the question was not addressed at him. Behind them, coming in late, was the young officer who had put Hadrian on report earlier. "You're supposed to be on watch, Wesley."
"Lieutenant Green relieved me a bit early so I could get some food while it was hot."
"So, you've come to force yourself in on your betters, is that it?" the big man asked and got a round of laughter from those with him. This had to be Beryl, Hadrian guessed. He was by far the oldest of the midshipmen-by ten years or more. "You're going to be nothing but a nuisance to the rest of us on this voyage, aren't you, boy? Here we thought we could at least have a quiet meal without you disturbing us. What did you do, whine to Green about how your stomach was hurting because we didn't let you have anything to eat last night?"
"No, I-" Wesley began.
"Shut it! I don't want to hear your sniveling voice. You there, cook!" Beryl snapped. "Don't serve Midshipman Wesley any food, not a biscuit crumb, do you understand?"
Hadrian nodded guessing that Beryl somehow outranked Wesley despite both of them wearing midshipmen uniforms.
Wesley looked angry, but said nothing and turned away from the table toward his sea chest.
"Oh, yes," Beryl said, rising from the table and walking across the room to Wesley. As he did, Hadrian noticed an old scar down the side of Beryl's face that looked to have nearly taken out his eye. "I've been meaning to go through your stuff to see if you had anything I might like."
Wesley turned, closing his chest abruptly.
"Open it, boy, and let me have a look."
"No, you have no right!"
Beryl's toadies at the table jeered the boy and laughed.
He took a step forward and from his posture, Hadrian knew what was coming even if Wesley was oblivious. The big midshipman struck Wesley hard across the face. The boy fell over his chest onto his back. He rolled to his side, his face red with fury, but never got further than his knees before Beryl struck him again, this time hard enough to spray blood from his nose. Wesley collapsed to the floor again with a wail of pain, and lay crumbled in a ball holding his face. The other midshipmen cheered.
Beryl sifted through the contents of Wesley's chest. "All that for nothing? I thought you were a lord's son. This is pathetic." He pulled a white linen shirt out and looked it over. "Well, this at least isn't too bad, and I could use a new shirt." He slammed the chest shut and returned to his breakfast.
Disgusted, Hadrian started to move to help Wesley but stopped when he saw Poe earnestly shaking his head. The young seaman took hold of Hadrian's arm and nearly dragged him back up to the main deck where the sun had risen sufficiently to cause them to squint.
"Don't involve yourself in the affairs of officers," Poe told him earnestly. "They're just like nobles. Strike one and you'll hang for it. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. My older brother Ned is the coxswain on the Immortal. The horror stories he's told me can turn one's stomach. Blimey, you act like you've never been on a ship 'afore."
Hadrian did not say anything as he followed Poe back toward the galley.
"You haven't, have you?" Poe asked suddenly.
"So, who is this big fella? Is he Beryl?" Hadrian asked to change the subject.
Poe scowled, then sighed. "Yep, he's the senior midshipman."
"So, Beryl's a noble?"
"Don't know if he is or he ain't. Most are third or fourth sons, the ones not suited for the tournaments or monastic life who volunteer to serve hoping they can one day manage a captain's rank, rule their own ship, and make some money. Most midshipmen only serve about five years before passing the lieutenant's examination, but Beryl, he's been a midshipman for something like ten years now, I reckon. I guess it makes a man sorta cranky, being left behind like that. Even if he isn't a true blue-blooded noble, he's still an officer and on this ship that means the same thing."
"Royce?" Hadrian whispered.
Royce lay in his hammock near the bow of the ship, his head still covered with the white kerchief-the insignia of the maintop crew. He was shivering and wet, lying in soaked clothes.
"Royce," he repeated. This time, he shook his partner's shoulder.
"Do that again and I'll cut your hand off," he growled miserably, his voice garbled and sickly.
"I brought you some coffee and bread. I put raisins in the bread. You like raisins."
Royce peered out from under his thin blanket with a vicious glare. He eyed the meal and promptly looked away with a grimace.
"Sorry, I just knew you hadn't eaten since yesterday." Hadrian put the tray down away from him. "They gave you extra duty, didn't they? You seemed to be up there longer than anyone else."
"Bristol kept me on station as punishment for being slow yesterday. How long was I up there?"
"Twelve hours at least. Listen, I thought we'd have a look around the forward hold. Wyatt tells me the seret are hiding a special cargo up there. If you can get your stomach under control, maybe you can open a few locks for me?"
Royce shook his head miserably. "Not until this ship stops rolling. I stand up and the world spins. I've got to sleep. How come you're not sick?"
"I am, but not like you. I guess elven blood and water don't mix."
"It might," Royce said, disappearing back under his blanket. "If I don't start feeling better soon I'll slit my wrists."
Hadrian took his blanket, laid it out over the shivering form of Royce, and was about to head back up topside when he remembered something. "Any idea what happened to Edgar Drew?"
"The guy that fell?"
"Yeah, some of the crew think he might have been murdered."
"I didn't see anything. Spent most of my time hugging the mast. I was pretty sick-still am. Get out of here and let me sleep."
It was late and the port watch was on duty, but most of them slept on deck or in the rigging. Only a handful had to remain alert during the middle watch; three lookouts aloft at the masthead, the quartermaster's mate who manned the wheel in Wyatt's absence, and the Officer of the Watch. Hadrian nearly ran into him as he came up. ster Wesley, sir," Hadrian said, shifting the tray so he could properly perform the salute.
Wesley's face was blotchy, his nose and eyes black and blue and Hadrian knew he was standing an additional watch. On his way to Royce, Hadrian had overheard Lieutenant Bishop questioning the midshipman about a brawl, but since Wesley had refused to divulge the name of his adversary the young man took his punishment alone.
"Mister Wesley, I thought you might like a bit of hot coffee and something to eat. I'm guessing you haven't had much today."
The officer glared at him a moment, then looked at the tray. Seeing the steam rising from the coffee cup, his mouth opened and abruptly shut. "Who sent you here? Was it Beryl? Is this supposed to be funny?"
"No, sir. I just know you didn't get to eat breakfast, and you've been kept on duty through the rest of the meals today. You must be starved."
"You were ordered not to feed me."
Hadrian shrugged. "I've also been ordered by the captain to see that the crew is fed and fit for duty. You've been up a long time. A man could fall asleep without something to help keep his eyes open."
Wesley looked back down. "That's coffee, isn't it?" the young midshipman asked astonished. "There's not more than a few pounds on the entire ship and most of that is reserved for the captain."
"I did a bit of trading this afternoon with the purser and managed to get a couple cups worth."
"Why offer it to me?"
Hadrian looked up at the night sky. "It's cold tonight, and punishment for falling asleep can be severe."
Wesley nodded gravely. "On this ship a midshipman is flogged."
"Do you think that's Beryl's plan, sir? For standing up to him this morning in front of the other officers, I mean."
"Maybe. Beryl is a tyrant of the worst order and a libertine who squandered his family's fortune. If it wasn't for my brother, Breckton, I suspect Beryl wouldn't even notice me. Beating me must seem to Beryl as if he's better than my brother."
"Your brother is Sir Breckton?"
Wesley nodded. "But the joke is on him. I'm nothing like my brother. If I was I wouldn't be on this lousy floating piece of wood, or allow myself to be bested by a lout like Beryl."
"Take the coffee and bread, sir," Hadrian said. "I can't say I care for Beryl and if keeping you awake tonight gets under his skin, it will make tomorrow all the better in my book. The orders of the captain are more important than a senior midshipman."
"I'll still have to put you on report for this morning. This kindness won't change that."
"I didn't expect it to, sir."
The midshipman studied Hadrian, his face betraying a new curiosity. "In that case, thank you," he said, taking the food.
Dovin Thranic walked through the waist hold. Dark and cramped, the ship's bottom deck reeked of animal dung and salt water. A good four inches of liquid slime pooled along the centerline gutter forcing him to walk up the sides, hurdling the futtock rider beams to keep his shoes dry. Tomorrow he would order Mister Bishop to direct the detail of men to work the bilge pump in the evening to ensure he did not need to go through this every night.
His unsettled stomach made the ordeal even more miserable. After several days of sleeping on board the Emerald Storm while she was in dock, he thought he had gained his sea legs. The initial wretchedness had subsided, only to return now that the ship was rolling at a different cadence on the open sea. It was not nearly as bad as before, but it was still a nuisance and would not make his work any easier.
Thranic carried no light but did not need one. The sentry's lanterns at the far end of the hold gave sufficient illumination for him to see. He passed several sentries, seret who stood rigidly at their stations, ignoring his approach.
"They seem quiet tonight, have they been behaving?" Thranic asked as he approached the cages.
"Yes, sir," the senior guard replied, breaking his statuesque facade only briefly. "Sea sickness. They're all under the weather."
"Yes," Thranic noted, not without a degree of revulsion. He watched them. "They can see me you know, even in the dark. They have very good eyesight."
Since a response was not required, the seret remained silent.
"I can see recognition on their faces, recognition and fear. This is my first trip to visit them, but already they know me. They can sense the power of Novron within me and the evil in them instinctually cowers. It is like I am a candle and the light I give off pushes back their darkness."
Thranic stepped closer to the cages, each so densely packed they were forced to take turns between standing and lying. Those standing pressed their filthy naked bodies against each other for support. Males, females, and children were jammed together tightly creating a repugnant quivering mass of flesh. He watched with amusement as they whimpered and whined, struggling to move away from his approach.
"See? I am light and the putrid blackness of their souls retreats before me." Thranic studied their faces, each gaunt and hollow from starvation. "They are disgusting creatures-unnatural abominations that never should have been. Their very existence is an insult. You feel it don't you? We need to purge the world of the stain they cause. We need to do our best to clear the offense. We need to prove ourselves worthy."
Thranic was no longer looking at the elves. He was staring at his own hands. "Purification is never easy, but always necessary," he muttered, pensively. "Fetch me that tall male with the missing tooth," Thranic ordered. "I'll begin with him."
Following the sentinel's direction, the guards ripped the elf from his cage and bound his elbows behind his back. Using a spare rigging pulley, they hoisted the unfortunate prisoner by his arms to the overhead beam. The effort pulled the elf's limbs from their sockets, causing him to scream in agony. His wails and the wretched look on his face caused even the seret to look away, but Thranic watched stoically, his lips pursed approvingly.
"Swing him," he said as the elf howled anew from the motion.
The sentinel looked at the cages again. Inside others were weeping. At his glance, one female pushed forward. "Why can't you leave us alone?"
Thranic searched her face with a look of genuine pity. "Maribor demands that the mistake of his brother be erased. I am merely his tool."
"Then why not-why not just kill us and get it over with?" she cried at him, eyes wild. Thranic paused. He stared once more at his hands. He turned them over examining both sides with a distant expression. He seemed lost in thought, and was silent for so long that even the seret turned to face him. Thranic looked back at the female, his eyes blurring and lips trembling. "One must scrub very hard to remove some stains. Take her next."