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

Royce reached inside his tunic, pulled out the scarf, and rubbed the material between his fingers. He held it to his face and breathed deep. It smelled like her. He kept it hidden—his tiny treasure, soft and warm. On the nights of his sickness, he had lain in the hammock clutching it to his cheek as if it were a magic talisman to ward off misery. Only because of it had he been able to fall asleep.

The officers’ deck hatch opened, and Royce spotted Beryl stepping out into the night air. Beryl liked his sleep and, being senior midshipman, rarely held the late watch. He stood glancing around, taking in the lay of the deck. He cast an eye up at the maintop, but Royce knew he was invisible in the dark tangles. Beryl spotted Wesley making his rounds on the forecastle and crossed the waist and headed up the stair. Wesley looked concerned at his approach but held his ground. Perhaps the boy would get another beating that night. Whatever torments Beryl had planned for Wesley were no concern of Royce’s, and he thought it might be time to scare Bernie again.

“I won’t do it,” Wesley declared, drawing Royce’s attention. Once more Beryl nervously looked upward.

Who are you looking for, Mr. Beryl?

Royce unhooked himself from the shrouds and rolled over for his own glance upward. As usual, Bernie was keeping his distance.

No threat there.

Royce climbed to the yard, walked to the end, and, just as he had done during the race with Derning, slid down the rope so he could hear them.

“I can make life on this ship very difficult for you,” Beryl said, threatening Wesley. “Or have you forgotten your two days without sleep? There is talk that I’ll be made acting lieutenant, and if you think your life is hard with my current rank, after my promotion it’ll be a nightmare. And I’ll see to it that any transfer is refused.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. In fact, it’s better if you don’t. That way you can sound sincere if the captain questions you. Just find him guilty of something. Misconduct, disrespect, I don’t care. You put his buddy the cook on report for not saluting. Do something like that. Only this time it needs to be a flogging offense.”

“But why me? Why can’t you invent this charge?”

“Because if the accusation comes from you, the captain and Mr. Bishop will not question it.” He grinned. “And if they do, it’s your ass, not mine.”

“And that’s supposed to entice me?”

“No, but I’ll get off your back. If you don’t, you won’t eat, you won’t sleep, and you’ll become very accident-prone. The sea can be dangerous. Midshipman Jenkins lost both thumbs on our last voyage when he slipped with a rope, which is strange, ’cause he didn’t handle ropes that day. Invent a charge, make it stick, and get him flogged.”

“And why do you want him whipped?”

“I told you. My friends want blood. Now do we have a deal?”

Wesley stared at Beryl and took a deep breath. “I can’t misrepresent a man, and certainly not one under my command, simply to avoid personal discomfort.”

“It will be a great deal more than discomfort, you little git!”

“The best I can do is to forget we had this conversation. Of course, should some unusual or circumstantial accusation be leveled against Seaman Melborn, I might find it necessary to report this incident to the captain. I suspect he will take a dim view of your efforts to advance insubordination on his vessel. It could be viewed as the seeds of mutiny, and we both know the penalty for that.”

“You don’t know who you’re playing with, boy. As much as you’d like to think it, you’re no Breckton. If I can’t use you, I’ll lose you.”

“Is that all, Mr. Beryl? I must tack the ship now.”

Beryl spat at the younger man’s feet and stalked away. Wesley remained standing rigidly, watching him go. Once Beryl had disappeared below, Wesley gripped the rail and took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He took a deep breath, replaced his hat, straightened his jacket, and then shouted in a clear voice, “Hands to the braces!”

Royce had dealt with many people in his life, from serfs to kings, and few surprised him. He knew he could always depend on their greed and weakness, and he was rarely disappointed. Wesley was the first person in years to astonish him. While the young midshipman could not see it, Royce offered him the only sincere salute he had bestowed since he had stepped aboard.

Royce ascended to the topsail to loose the yard brace in anticipation of Wesley’s next order when his eye caught an irregularity on the horizon. At night, with only the suggestion of a moon, it was hard for anyone to tell where the sky ended and the sea began. Royce, however, could discern the difference. At that moment, he noticed a break in the line. Out to sea, ahead of the Storm, a black silhouette broke the dusty star field.

“Sail ho!” he shouted.

“What was that?” Wesley asked.

“Sail off the starboard bow,” he shouted, pointing to the southeast.

“Is there a light?”

“No, sir, a triangle-shaped sail.”

Wesley moved to the starboard rail. “I don’t see anything. How far out?”

“On the horizon, sir.”

“The horizon?” Wesley picked up the eyeglass and panned the sea. The rest of the ship was silent except for the creaking of the oak timbers as they waited. Wesley muttered something as he slapped the glass closed and ran to the quarterdeck to pound on the captain’s cabin. He paused and then pounded again.

The door opened to reveal the captain, barefoot in his nightshirt. “Mr. Wesley, have we run aground? Is there a mutiny?” The captain’s steward rushed to him with his robe.

“No, sir. There’s a sail on the horizon, sir.”

“A what?”

“A triangular sail, sir. Over there.” Wesley pointed while handing him the glass.

“On the horizon, you say? But how—” Seward crossed to the rail and looked out. “By Mar! But you’ve got keen eyes, lad!”

“Actually, the maintop crew spotted it first, sir. Sounded like Seaman Melborn, sir.”

“I’ll be buggered. Looks like three ships, Mr. Wesley. Call all hands.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Wesley roused Bristol, who woke the rest of the crew. In a matter of minutes men ran to their stations. Lieutenant Bishop was still buttoning his coat when he reached the quarterdeck, followed by Mr. Temple.

“What is it, sir?”

“The Dacca have returned.”

Wyatt, who was taking the helm, glanced over. “Orders, sir?” he asked coldly.

“Watch your tone, helmsman!” Temple snapped.

“Just asking, sir.”

“Asking for a caning!” Mr. Temple roared. “And you’ll get one if you don’t keep a civil tongue.”

“Shut up, the both of you. I need to think.” Seward began to pace the quarterdeck, his head down. One hand played with the tie to his robe; the other stroked his lips.

“Sir, we only have one chance and it’s a thin one at that,” Wyatt said.

Mr. Temple took hold of his cane and moved toward him.

“Belay, Mr. Temple!” the captain ordered before turning his attention back to Wyatt. “Explain yourself, helmsman.”

“At that range, with the land behind us, the Dacca can’t possibly see the Storm. All they can see are the lanterns.”