Rise of Empire (The Riyria Revelations #3-4)

“Why?”


Wyatt swallowed, and his hand absently drifted to his throat. “I know you saw me. You’re here to collect, but I don’t have the money I owe. Setting you up in Medford was nothing personal. We were starving, and Trumbul paid gold. I didn’t know they were going to arrest you for the king’s murder. I was just hiring you to steal the sword—that’s all. A hundred gold tenents is a lot of money. And honestly—well, I’ve never saved that much in my life and I doubt I ever will.”

“So you think getting us on the Emerald Storm is worth a hundred gold?”

Wyatt licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “I don’t know … is it?”





Royce and Hadrian crossed the busy street, dodging carts, and stepped onto weathered decking suspended by ropes. The boards bobbed and weaved beneath their feet. The two were dressed in loose-fitting duck-trousers, oversized linen shirts, tarpaulin hats with a bit of ribbon, and neckerchiefs tied in some arcane way that Wyatt had fussed with for some time to get right. They both carried large, heavy cloth seabags, in which they stowed their old clothes and Hadrian hid his three swords. Being unarmed left him feeling off balance and naked.

They snaked through the crowded dock, following Wyatt’s directions to the end of the pier. The Emerald Storm was a smart-looking, freshly painted ship, with three masts, four decks, and the figurehead of a golden winged woman ornamenting the bow. Its sails were furled, and green pennants flew from each mast. A small army of men hoisted bags of flour and barrels of salted pork onto the deck, where the crew stowed the supplies. Shouts came from what appeared to be an officer, who directed the work, and another man, who enforced the orders with a stout rattan cane. Two imperial soldiers guarded the ramp.

“Do you have business here?” one asked at their approach.

“Yeah,” Hadrian replied with an innocent, hopeful tone. “We’re looking for work. Heard this ship was short on hands. We were told to speak with Mr. Temple.”

“What’s this here?” asked a short, heavyset man with threadbare clothes, bushy eyebrows, and a gruff voice worn to gravel from years of yelling in the salt air. “I’m Temple.”

“Word is you’re looking to put on a cook,” Hadrian said pleasantly.

“We are.”

“Well then, this is your lucky day.”

“Ah-huh.” Temple nodded with a sour look.

“And my friend here is an able—ah—topman.”

“Oh, he is, is he?” Temple eyed Royce. “We have openings, but only for experienced sailors. Normally, I’d be happy to take on green men, but we can’t afford any more landlubbers on this trip.”

“But we are sailors—served on the Endeavor.”

“Are you, now?” the ship’s master asked skeptically. “Let me see yer hands.”

The master examined Hadrian’s palms, looking over the various calluses and rough places while grunting occasionally. “You must have spent most of your time in the galley. You’ve not done any serious rope work.” He examined Royce’s hands and raised an eyebrow at him. “Have you ever been on a ship before? It’s certain you’ve never handled a sheet or a capstan.”

“Royce here is a—you know—” Hadrian pointed up at the ship’s rigging. “The guy who goes up there.”

The master shook his head and laughed. “If you two are seamen, then I’m the Prince of Percepliquis!”

“Oh, but they are, Mr. Temple,” a voice declared. Wyatt exited the forecastle and came jogging toward them. A bright white shirt offset his tawny skin and black hair. “I know these men, old mates of mine. The little one is Royce Melborn, as fine a topman as they come. And the big one is, ah …”

“Hadrian.” Royce spoke up.

“Right, of course. Hadrian’s a fine cook—he is, Mr. Temple.”

Temple pointed toward Royce. “This one’s a topman? Are you joking, Wyatt?”

“No, sir, he’s one of the best.”

Temple looked unconvinced.

“You can have him prove it to you, sir,” Hadrian offered. “You could have him race your best up the ropes.”

“You mean up the shrouds,” Wyatt said, correcting him.

“Yeah.”

“You mean aye.”

Hadrian sighed and gave up.

The master did not notice as he had been focused on Royce. He sized him up, then shouted, “Derning!” His strong, raspy voice carried well against the ocean wind. Immediately, a tall, thin fellow with leathery skin jogged over.

“Aye, sir?” he responded respectfully.

“This fellow says he can beat you in a race to loose the topsail and back. What do you think?”

“I think he’s mistaken, sir.”

“Well, we’ll find out.” The master turned back to Royce. “I don’t actually expect you to beat Derning. Jacob here is one of the best topmen I’ve seen, but if you put in a good showing, the two of you will have jobs aboard. If it turns out you’re wasting my time, well, you’ll be swimming back. Derning, you take starboard. Royce, you have port. We’ll begin after Lieutenant Bishop gives permission for us to get under way.”

Mr. Temple moved toward the quarterdeck and Wyatt slid down the stair rail to Royce’s side. “Remember what I taught you last night … and what Temple said. You don’t need to beat Derning.”

Hadrian clapped Royce on the back, grinning. “So the idea is to just free the sail and get back down alive.”

Royce nodded and looked apprehensively up at the towering mast before him.

“Not afraid of heights, I hope.” Wyatt grinned.

“All right, gentlemen!” Mr. Temple shouted, addressing the crew from his new position on the quarterdeck. “We’re having a contest.” He explained the details to the crew as Royce and Jacob moved to the base of the mainsail. Royce looked up with a grimace that drew laughter from the rest.

“Seriously, he isn’t afraid of heights, is he?” Wyatt asked, looking concerned. “I mean, it looks scary, and well—okay, it is the first few times you go aloft, but it really isn’t that hard if you’re careful and can handle heights.”

Hadrian grinned at Wyatt, but all he said was, “I think you’re going to like this.”

An officer appeared on the quarterdeck and stood beside the master. “You may set sail, Mr. Temple.”

The master turned to the main deck and roared, “Loose the topsail!”