“Good morning, Lieutenant Guerin,” I greeted the marine’s commander. For once I’d been awake before the piping and shouts and subsequent clatter of hammocks being stowed. Sleeping in the same room as … some kind of ancestral god-spirit? … had proven a challenge.
“Good morning, Saint-Cloud.” She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t sleep well?”
“I don’t think I slept at all.”
“Battle takes people that way, sometimes.” She turned back to her breakfast, looking rested enough herself, despite the darkening bruises and livid burns that marred her face and hands. Caraby gave a portentous nod as I took a seat and served myself from the dishes in the center of the table.
“It does, indeed,” he agreed. “Why, I remember my first battle, I was so wound up, I barely slept a wink the whole week after. Every time I closed my eyes, the enemy was upon me!”
I mustered a polite smile and forced myself to eat while Caraby regaled us yet again with the story of his first battle. I didn’t have much appetite, but I’d already learned that fresh food was a luxury to be enjoyed whenever available, and I’d pitched in a not-inconsiderable share of money to make sure the wardroom had a reasonable supply of it set aside.
I chewed mechanically, paying little attention to his story as I brooded on my situation. That thing was now safely hidden in my sea-chest. I was aware that I should report it to Captain Tancrède and, most certainly, do my best to banish it back across the Line, but —
— but.
It knew my name.
It might know my family.
It was might just be a god.
It repulsed me and fascinated me, and I didn’t have the faintest idea what I was supposed to do with it, except I didn’t want to heave it over the railing or try to force it across the Line without at least having some sort of intelligible conversation with it, first. So I waited until Caraby was finished with his tale and his meal. I was still resentful that he’d lied to me, but under the circumstances….
“Forgive me, Mister Caraby, but I was wondering if we might continue my language lessons, when we have time.”
The sailing master’s bushy eyebrows rose.
“I would be delighted,” he said, his face brightening. Perhaps he took my request as a sign of forgiveness. “In fact, I wonder if a few of our young ladies and gentlemen would be inclined to join your lessons, for their own betterment.”
I slowly nodded. I hated to admit it, but I was the ship’s tutor, and it was a good idea.
“Agreed,” I said. “In my experience, education is always assisted by the presence of a bit of friendly competition.”
“Indeed, indeed.” He nodded. “However, I fear that none of us will have time for language lessons today, Sentinel.”
Caraby’s prediction was sound; for the next few days, the crew’s every waking hour was spent making repairs to both the Chaser and the captured Damme Boy. I was given no chance to idle, set to work stabilizing spars with balewalls while the hands repaired them and providing whatever other assistance my bare hands or mastery of bale might offer. I took the opportunity to learn more about the ship and to make my interest in learning Chevachèchen widely known, which soon garnered me a rough and ready working vocabulary gleaned from those crew members born in the archipelago. For better or for worse, they seemed eager to teach me. I suspected it might be another form of appeasement, but I was grateful for their tutelage, anyway.
As the days passed, I remained silent about the skull in my sea-chest, excusing myself on the grounds that Captain Tancrède was too busy for such a trivial matter. He had, in truth, seemed to have lost interest in the mysterious balesteed now that the crew had settled down, and for its part, the transient, or god, or whatever it was, seemed content to remain silent and still in my cabin. I knew it was unlikely remain that way, but I found it easier to work myself to exhaustion every day and fall into a sound sleep at night than to proactively address the conundrum before me.
The captured Damme Boy, under the temporary command of Lt. Peck, departed for Adrahan two days before the Chaser had finished repairing its sails and spars. I’d thought that once the Chaser was seaworthy we’d follow the first lieutenant back to port for a more thorough refitting, but Captain Tancrède had other ideas. It became known to the crew, in that mysterious and unofficial way many things become known on the ship, that in addition to searching for the pirates’ hidden city, Perdue, the captain was also investigating rumors that most of the coastal raids were being conducted by a new pirate king sailing in a strange white ship.
“Pray, what’s so strange about a white ship?” I asked Cadet Cutter one Sunday afternoon, after we’d finished our language lesson with Caraby. The ship’s master and the two other youths had quickly abandoned us to spend what was left of their free time in more enjoyable pursuits, but Cutter had lingered. I had a vague sense that he had appointed himself my mentor on ship, which was charming and not unappreciated. His sharp mind reminded me of Renata’s, my niece’s, at times.
“Nothing specific,” he said, pulling out a half-carved chunk of wood and his knife. We made ourselves comfortable next to a cannon’s carriage, Cutter whittling as I gazed out at the endless horizon. “White’s an impractical color for a ship, as it would be very difficult to keep clean. I suppose a white hull might make good camouflage for a ship coming in from the water or moving in through a fog. …It wouldn’t be as useful for a ship coming at you from inland, though. The light color would stand out against the dark coastline.”
“Perhaps the ship doesn’t make its base along the coast?”
“Perhaps. There are enough small islands in these waters to provide pirates with plenty of offshore hiding spots,” Cutter agreed. “Especially farther south, toward the Razor Reef.”
“I’ve heard of that.” I glanced at him. “Have you ever been to the Reef?”
“No — it’s well beyond Cazmorin.” The boy shrugged. “Now that we’re at peace with Sherenyu-Ruk, there’s no reason to sail that far west.”
“I need to study the charts more closely,” I mused, reminded again of how little I knew about the world. How odd, I thought, to feel a stirring of enthusiasm again. My visit to Chevachèche had been a disaster, but there was so much more world out there to see. “…And the white ship is taking prisoners, they say? I thought pirates wanted gold and silver.”
“Slaves might be worth something.” Cutter’s knife flashed as he worked. “Maybe they sell them to Sherenyu-Rek?”
“I didn’t think Sherenyu-Rek was that close. Doesn’t the Reef form a natural barrier?”
“The country isn’t close, but Sher ships trade with Cazmorin.” Cutter paused a moment. “And they keep slaves, I believe. Lt. Guerin would know; she was in the war.”
I nodded, remembering her story about the Line breach.
“I’d think the Empire would have something to say a slave trade in Cazmorin, though.”
“The Empire is thin on the ground down here.”
“But it sent us here.”
“If I had to guess, the abductions are cutting into colonial profits. A number of wealthy imperial families own the fields and plantations in the area, and the Austral Fleet primarily protects the trading lanes.”
“That’s … probably true, but it sounds a bit cynical,” I observed. The boy lifted an angular shoulder, his eyes fixed on his work.
“I’ve been at sea five years,” he said. “I’ve learned a few things.”
“I daresay you have.” Five years; that meant Cutter had joined the Navy at nine, the same age as our youngest powder monkey. I wondered if his uncle had invited him to serve, and whether a nine-year-old, even a bright one, understood the risks of Naval service well enough to make an informed choice. “You enjoy the service?”
“Very much,” he said, blowing some wood dust off the carving. “I hope to command my own ship, eventually.”
I expected Cutter would make a fine captain someday, if he lived long enough for advancement to that rank. He was quiet and self-possessed, he spoke and comported himself well, and he showed those small courtesies, such as taking the time to explain things to me, that made people like and respect him.
I sighed, eyes drifting to the horizon again. I’d once had the kinds of high hopes for Renata’s career that Captain Tancrède undoubtedly had for Cutter’s. She and I had agreed several years ago that, after she finished her education, she’d adopt the Mazarin name and come work for Cloud Trading Company as my personal assistant. I’d planned for her to take over the company someday. My brother and his wife had supported our plan, and it had seemed like the perfect solution to my lack of a direct heir until I’d lost them all to one explosion.
“Are you well, Sentinel?”
I realized I’d been pressing my hand against my chest, as if to hold in my aching heart.
“Yes, of course.” I dropped my hand and straightened. “Thank you for your patience, as always, Cadet. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a few tasks to attend to before we’re piped to supper.”
Feeling restless, I made my way down to my small cabin and opened my sea-chest. There, nestled under my spare shirts, sat the horse skull. I discerned and saw the bale-glow still coiled tightly within its brain pan.
As if it could sense my gaze, the transient uncoiled itself, pale tendrils shooting upward to wrap around my head and neck. I shuddered but remained still.
“What is your name?” I asked softly in Chevachèchen. The tendrils coiled lightly around my throat and up the sides of my head, pressing into my ears.
My name is Nje, the transient said, its voice little more than a buzz from the tendrils pressed against my ears.
Progress. I swallowed. I’d memorized a phrase for this moment.
“What do you want, Nje?”
I want *** *** Saint-Cloud *** ***.
Scowling, I shook my head. I’d memorized verbs such as “to serve” and “to assist,” and others that seemed likely to be used, but it appeared Nje didn’t want to do anything quite so useful for me. Or with me. Or to me. Who could tell?
“Please repeat?”
*** I want *** Saint-Cloud *** ***.
“I learn to speak Chevachèchen slow,” I replied, painstakingly piecing together my words. “You stay. Quiet. I want to speak.”
*** I am *** and *** *** learn ***. The tendrils withdrew.
“Um … good?” I hoped whatever it had said was good. Baffled, I drew my folded shirts back over the skull and closed the sea-chest, locking it and slipping the key into my pocket.
Clearly, I needed more language lessons.
Over the next week, the Chaser sailed south along the coast of the Rhau plains and the Cazmorin jungles. The captured sailors of the Damme Boy, hoping for leniency, had told the captain that more pirates worked the waters in the region, hunting especially the ivory- and spice-merchants who shipped luxuries to and from Candor. The Shrike was one such pirate ship, a xebec, Captain Tancrède informed his second lieutenant, who informed the cadets, who let it slip to the rest of the crew, and the Steadfast was another, a former southwest trade merchantman that had been captured and turned into a pirate ship two years ago.
The Chasers were in good cheer, excited by the promise of battle and reward money. Many of the wardroom conversations over the next week revolved around battle strategies involving three ships, with chunks of ship’s biscuit and bottles of wine playing the central roles. I watched and listened carefully, trying to understand this strange new world of wind, tides, and cannon so I could work more efficiently with the crew.
At night I allowed Nje to slip into my swinging cot and wrap its bale tendrils around me, our conversation almost subvocal as I practiced the new words I’d learned. To my surprise, Nje did the same, peppering its speech with Empyrian words that I assumed it overheard in the wardroom outside the fabric walls of my cabin.
Slowly, painstakingly, I came to understand that Nje had seen my brief moment of Discernment, that long ago night of the sailors’ dance, and it had swum up to investigate.
I still didn’t quite understand why it had been underwater in the first place, and it didn’t seem inclined to tell me. I wondered if the angry revolutionaries of Chevachèche might have pursued one of my exiled family’s ships and destroyed it, or if perhaps one of the ships had foundered of natural causes. Whatever had happened, I didn’t think Nje would have willingly let itself be separated from the Saint-Clouds; not with the way it so eagerly reached out every time I opened the chest to speak to it.
“You want to go to the Line?” I whispered. The transient recoiled a moment, its slippery, bale-formed limbs tightening, then loosening.
No! You must *** to ride you, Nje said urgently. I will *** you and help you *** your calls in battle. It used the Empyrian term for “battle,” a word that had been used in the wardroom quite often in the last few days.
“What is to ride me?” I asked with trepidation. The bale wrapped tightly around me again. I shook my head, my skin crawling at the slick, sickly sensation. “No. Stop. I no want that.”
Nje loosened its grip and began to speak, too quickly for me to comprehend.
“Wait. Slow. You help me … make my calls in battle?” I asked, groping for an appropriate verb in Chevachèchen.
“Yes. I can help you *** your calls in battle.”
“Increase?” I used the Empyrian term. “Um, make many calls? You help me make many calls?”
Yes. Many calls. I can help you increase your calls in battle.
“How many?”
Many. And I can *** *** *** and it was off again, babbling incomprehensibly. I listened until I fell asleep, the buzz in my ears drowning out the rest of the ship’s noises.