* * * * *
Captain Kaille sauntered uncomfortably into the Delahaye’s sky-blue ballroom, trying to control his shipboard swagger, but only succeeding in making it more pronounced.
Taking in the decoration of light blue and purple flowers, he turned to examine the dancing men and women, who wore gentle blues, greens, and creams. It looked almost as though they’d consciously coordinated, though how so many dozens of people could make so concerted an effort to match escaped Kaille’s ability to comprehend.
Swagger becoming worse as a result of trying to control it, he sashayed across the room. He dipped his hat to one of the ladies who met his eye, and was confused when she turned from him with a disapproving huff. Though he’d put on his finest clothes, Kaille supposed he was still a threadbare sight in comparison to the beautifully crafted finery within the pastel wash of the room.
Head down, the Captain made his way to the refreshment table, brushing his glance over the richly decorated little dainties and confections. He grabbed one—a sprig of tiny leaves and a sugar shell from the look of it—and tossed the entire thing into his mouth. The shell crunched against his teeth with an alarming noise and he called out his displeasure.
“Ugh, cursed thing!” the Captain cried as he spat it out. Two scandalized women whispered to one another behind their fans.
“I thought maybe the shell was part of the dish,” he explained with a lame wave. The women moved off, tittering as they went. Kaille touched a finger to his teeth, making sure they were all still intact. “Why present it as food if you can’t eat it?”
Hungry but wary, the Captain carefully grabbed a few other small snacks and moved for the edge of the room. He’d chosen the offerings that looked most like recognizable food, but still thought it might be best to make his attempt at eating them without an audience. Noticing a quiet hallway off of the ballroom, he turned into it.
The relative hush of the darkened corridor was welcome. Aye, he thought, a quiet hallway is just the thing.
Sniffing at what looked like an egg in a nest, Kaille sized up his dinner. He was pulled from this unhappy consideration by a motion above. On the top of a narrow shelf sat an orange cat with yellow eyes, which were trained in expert scrutiny upon the Captain’s would-be dinner. “I don’t think it’s really an egg,” said the Captain to the cat, sniffing at it again. “We don’t get a lot of eggs at sea, but I know they shouldn’t smell like this.”
The cat said nothing, as was the providence of a cat, but kept a careful eye on the prospective food.
“I suppose I can’t complain,” said the Captain ruefully to his feline audience. “I should’ve eaten ahead of time.” Holding up the food like a glass of wine, he tilted it towards the cat and toasted, “to your health, unlucky partygoer.”
Kaille pushed the morsel into his mouth and chewed loudly. The flavor was unexpectedly strange and well beyond what he found palatable. His gag reflex initiated and he spit out the pulpy mess into his hand. Looking around for a method of disposal and seeing none, he opened one of the small drawers that made up the cat’s perch, and scraped his hand into it.
“You don’t think anyone will find that, do you?” he asked the cat, looking at the closed drawer guiltily. The feline blinked at him with aloof indifference. “You won’t tell? Well, it’s not my fault they’re serving seashells and twigs. That’s not food.”
The cat mewed insistently in response. Finally, there was something they could agree on. Kaille held out the other snack he’d taken, this one an unidentified roll, and presented it for the feline to sniff. After a few moments of consideration, the cat turned away, not recognizing this offered item as sustenance either.
“Come now, if I have to suffer through this torture, then you must also,” said the Captain, thrusting the treat back in the cat’s face. “Have a try.”
The mouser turned its head in strong opposition.
Kaille frowned at the roll, shoving the ration into his mouth and tearing off a bite. He almost immediately regretted this. Grabbing a vase from a nearby table, he spit the unpalatable roll into it.
“Why would anyone spend their time making that?” Kaille cried, trying to identify the ingredients so as to avoid eating them, even separately, ever again. “And who would risk their innards ingesting it? I should have followed your lead! Never mistrust a cat’s nose!”
The feline jumped to the floor with a recalcitrant meow and took off down the hall.
“Hey, where are you going?” Kaille asked. He could hear the party of laughing women in the opposite direction. Not wanting to return to the ball quite yet, he set off after the cat with a hasty, “Hey, wait!”
* * * * *
“Just ye stop there!” yelled Auk as he pulled Cricket from Tappan by the scruff of his neck. Reaching down to the swollen and bloody shipboy, he hefted the boy up and pushed him out of the way. Tappan looked at them both with blood-shot eyes and then, gaining control of his senses, hobbled away, leaving the Second alone with the newest shiphand.
“I said, what’s going on here?” Auk repeated with a growl.
“That filthy Baxler was the one who stole my pants,” said Cricket bitingly. “He said so himself. I was only giving him what he deserved.”
“Thinking someone deserves that,” Auk said, motioning after Tappan, “is what makes ye a boy instead of a man.”
Cricket’s face fell in anger for a moment, but then a wicked grin lit it again. “You’d know about men, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “I bet you’re the woman.”
Auk swallowed in distress, eager as he’d been for this moment to arrive. “Look, I don’t know what ye think ye know about such things,” he said circuitously, “but I’m telling ye that ye’re wrong.”
“I’m wrong?” Cricket screeched. He reached for the hammer that Tappan had dropped and raised it in an uncontrolled, two-handed grip. “You think I didn’t know when my Mama’s man came into my room at night? You don’t think I know about how he touched me? You don’t think I know about the pain? You think I’m wrong about that?” Lifting the hammer higher, Cricket yelled, “Go ahead, monster, tell me I’m wrong!”
Auk, hardly able to believe the boy’s furious words, held his hands up in a sign of peace. It pained him to hear what Cricket had been through—the evil of it all. “Nay, boy,” he said softly, “nay, I don’t think ye’re wrong about that—”
“Go ahead, you sick creep,” taunted Cricket, gripping the hammer tightly, “tell me how I’m wrong! And while you’re at it, explain to me why I shouldn’t tell the Captain on you.”
Auk held out his hands. “Now, listen to me, right?” he began slowly, no words eloquent enough to lessen the boy’s pain, “I’m not gonna lie to you. I do…love men. But hear me, aye? I love men, not boys. Aye? That’s the difference, don’t ye see? What was done to ye, that was wrong because ye weren’t old enough to say aye or nay. What I do, we always have the power to say aye or nay. We both want it.”
“Why would anyone want that!” Cricket screamed. It wasn’t a question. With a force drawn from fear, he slammed the hammer onto the deck, causing the Eye of Misero to splinter. “I bet Tappan was lying,” he shouted. “I bet it was you that came below decks while I was sleeping. I bet you couldn’t wait to put your hands all over me!”
“Nay,” Auk said gently, shaking his head. “That’s not how it works—”
“I won’t let you stay here,” Cricket said, the tears pouring down his face. “I won’t let a filth-eater like you get away with embarrassing me like that. I won't let you touch anyone else again!”
Cricket raised the great hammer again, gasping for air.
* * * * *
Jas yelled out in pain as a loose pin stabbed into his side. The garment must have been in need of mending. He felt more uncomfortable in his stolen clothes with every passing lie his companion told. “I think we ought to tell someone who we are,” he said once again, tugging at the expensive fabric and its unseen pins. “We should keep it simple.
Finding the girl as soon as possible—”
Whyl didn’t need to say anything to cut off Jas’s words. Walking away abruptly, he demonstrated that he hadn’t even been listening.
Sidling after Whyl through the crowd, Jas saw his companion lunge at a middle-aged woman and take her hand. “My Lady Margery, allow me to—” he began.
“I’m not Margery,” the woman said, drawing her hand away. “You’ve mistaken me.”
“I…I apologize, sweet lady,” Whyl said, looking around, his expression confused. “I was told Lady Margery was the most beautiful woman in the room, so you must understand my confusion…”
Jas examined the woman carefully. She was nearing middle age, her face heavily painted to disguise early wrinkles. He couldn’t imagine what Whyl was playing at, flattering her so.
The lady was of a different mind, however, and flushed beneath her heliotrope. “Kind sir, you honor me,” she tittered, offering the hand she had pulled away. “I’m Mademoiselle Lirot.”
“And I’m Donovan Black,” Whyl said with a sweeping bow, “but I assure you, the honor is all mine.”
“Was it to greet Lady Margery that brought you over here,” she asked sadly, “or may I claim more of your time?”
“The claim is all yours,” Whyl said with a silly grin. “I was but moving this way to find my Lord Delahaye’s children and ward. I was told the Lady Margery might know where they’ve got to. I have small trinkets for them, you see,” he explained, returning to her hand with a kiss. “But the trinkets may wait. What is a child’s birthday to the smile of a beautiful woman?”
Jas cringed as Mademoiselle Lirot fanned herself. He found it impossible to believe that Whyl had become suddenly enamored of the painted spinster. He was beginning to feel, rather, that something very suspicious was playing out before his eyes. It was for the safety of the heir, he reminded himself for the fiftieth time as he watched the simpering display. The heir was more important than a man’s pride.
“I wouldn’t dare keep you from giving presents to the children for my sake!” cried Mademoiselle Lirot. “I couldn’t be a part of such cruelty!”
“But we’re at a loss then,” said Whyl, his eyes without guile, “for I’m not willing to leave your side.”
“Surely it wouldn’t take you long to give out a few small presents?” asked Mademoiselle Lirot, her lip sagging in a pout.
“No indeed,” said Whyl quickly. “I’ve given out all but one already. I’m having difficulty finding the last, however. It didn’t seem right to leave out the Ward, birthday or no.”
“Of course you shouldn’t leave out Lucy!” cried Mademoiselle Lirot, her fan moving rapidly. “She’s such a funny little Goose. I saw her running away last, over into the east wing.”
Whyl followed her motion, spying the grand passage to the estate beyond. “Then she could be anywhere,” he said, looking dejected. “It’s as I say…the trinkets will have to wait. Tell me, sweet miss, are you engaged for the next dance?”
With a coy smile, Mademoiselle Lirot took his arm. “I am now,” she said. “But you must finish your task first. I won’t be the cause of a joy deferred. Go now and you’ll be back in time for the next reel.”
Whyl bowed to her deeply. “You are as sweet as you are beautiful. I shall not fail, Mademoiselle Lirot,” he said, kissing her hand once more. “I shall never fail you.”
The Lady chortled with her friends as Whyl turned towards the east wing. Jas followed, his sense of unease growing. “Let me guess,” he muttered through gritted teeth, “you’re not returning to dance with her.”
Jas sighed. Besides learning the name and location of the Ward, that encounter in particular had seemed a great heartbreak.
* * * * *
Captain Kaille continued to spit offending flavors from his mouth as he followed the cat down the hall, having decided that it might be best to hang onto the despoiled vase for the time being.
The cat, which had stopped at the edge of a turn in the corridor, looked back at him expectantly, his orange tail giving a peremptory flick. Silently, it leapt around the corner.
“Now, hang on just a minute,” Kaille said in partial jest, starting forward. “You’ve seen far too much, we really must get our stories straight.”
Kaille turned down the hallway, however, and the cat had disappeared. Sighing, already tired by an evening in a strange place, the Captain lowered himself into a spindly chair between two pedestals. He tucked his borrowed vase under his arm, spitting into it occasionally.
Kaille regretted not bringing Jas. It was his old school companion who had always been his trusted advisor in the realm of proper society. Kaille never had the stomach for such company. He’d nothing in common with the people, and preferred his own life far too well…not that Jas was such a proper gentleman by the standards of most, but he could well outplay the crude Kaille and cruder Ben—
The Captain was about to chide himself for considering his old friend, when the cat beat him to it. From above fell the porcelain statue of a small bird. By some miracle it didn’t break when it impacted upon his head. It bounced from one hand to the other as Kaille tried to slow its downward momentum. When he finally laid a sturdy hand on the trinket, he saw the beginnings of a crack in the blue glaze.
Kaille heard purring and looked up to see the cat settling itself atop the tall pedestal, now vacated.
“Oy,” he said harshly to it, reaching up a punishing hand, “I’m trying to sulk down here. Do you mind?”
The cat took off, jumping to the next pedestal and knocking its porcelain figurine down as well. Kaille shot out his arms to catch the new projectile, letting the other fall to the floor instead, where is shattered. He stared down at it guiltily and then looked after the cat.
“If anyone asks, that was your fault,” Kaille said, putting the unbroken bird back in place. “You’re utterly ziggered.”
Leaving his adopted vase in the chair, he moved after the cat, which jumped from shelf to chair to shelf, little caring what small knickknack he sent hurtling to the ground. Kaille rushed after, trying and failing to put the hallway back to rights.
* * * * *
The hallways of the east wing were both ornate and empty. Without realizing—or perhaps by the example of Whyl, who led the way—Jas found himself tiptoeing through the sparsely-lit corridors, eyes pealed for a girl in a pink dress.
“Who were your friends that invited you aboard the Illiamnaut?” Jas asked, wondering if they at least were from Pru, had wives, or chased after older women. Whyl made no sign of answering, so Jas repeated the question.
“School friends,” Whyl said vaguely. “You know.”
Jas didn’t know. He stopped in his tracks, a demand for the truth on his lips.
Whyl must have felt his lack of resolve, for he turned and suggested that Jas go wait in the stables. Jas heard nothing, however, because he’d noticed a spot of pink at the end of the corridor.
“Is that…” he began. His words were cut short when Whyl clasped a hurried hand over the shiphand’s mouth.
“Shh,” Whyl warned, turning his back to corridor and girl. He steered Jas until they were retreating down the hall, his words urgent. “Fenric may be by. Go back to the stables now.”
“But I should—” Jas argued.
“She doesn’t know you,” Whyl explained. “You’ll scare her. Go to the stables.”
For no better reason then that he was used to taking orders, Jas nodded and proceeded to retrace his steps through the fine estate. He was on the verge of entering the ballroom when the uneasy feeling in his stomach returned. Something didn’t feel right.
While it might make sense that Whyl would want to face the murderous Scribe alone, it seemed wrong that such a prideful encounter could end up endangering the child in pink. If he was so worried about the girl’s safety, then why send away a perfectly capable fighter? There was no reason that Jas’s activity in battle should be any more frightening to her than that of another str
anger.
With a deep breath, Jas turned again and headed back down the corridor. Afraid that Whyl’s reticence may have had something to do with the Scribe’s murderous plot, he reached for his dagger.
It was gone.
Jas didn’t need to look far to find the missing weapon. Rounding the corner, he saw his dagger in the hand of Whyl Winesmith. It sparkled in the candlelight as he raised it above the form of a sobbing girl, readying it to strike.
* * * * *
Kaille figured out after several attempts that lunging at the escaping cat wouldn’t only fail to capture the feline, but would also cause him quite the headache. He was already forming a plan to stalk it like prey, and was to be seen tiptoeing carefully along the corridor.
The cat rested at a corner, staring at something beyond the bend, its tail twitching thoughtfully. Prancing the last few steps, Kaille laid hands on the errant feline, placing two hands behind the cat’s front legs and lifting it so that it faced away from him, hind legs dangling.
His last steps had brought him into a new corridor in which he saw, past the orange fur of the cat’s ears, a girl in pink curled and sobbing on a couch.
Past her crying form, Fenric was approaching. Kaille’s heart dropped to his stomach upon seeing what the Scribe held.
It was a raised pistol.
Hands still clutching the cat before him, the Captain’s insides tied themselves into terrified knots. He’d been wrong about the Scribe! He’d been wrong, and now the girl was going to die! High-stepping down the hall, feline an arm’s length in front of him, Kaille ran to the weeping girl.
As he approached, the mouth of another corridor came into view. In it stood Whyl Winesmith, a dagger at the ready. The Captain came to an abrupt stop.
There was a gasp, a sharp intake of breath, a surprised “huh,” and a discontented yowl.
At this strange collection of noises, the girl in pink looked up. Kaille wondered for a moment what she thought to see them holding in turn a pistol, a dagger, and an ornery orange cat. Perhaps unsurprisingly, all eyes were on the latter.