The Emerald Storm (The Riyria Revelations #4)

“Courier,” Hadrian said, his heart racing. He bowed and held up the message like a shield.

“He’s probably been here a dozen times, Sauly.” Ethelred snatched the folded parchment and eyed it. “This is from Merrick!”

All three lost interest in Hadrian as Ethelred unfolded the letter.

This was his chance to slip out while they were distracted. He could not risk Thrace drawing attention to him again. She had no idea what was going on, no way of knowing that just saying “Hello” would put a noose around his neck.

“Your Lordships.” Hadrian bowed, then turned and quickly walked away, passing Amilia and Thrace. With each step he felt her stare upon his back, until he turned the corner and disappeared.





***




“Any problems?” Royce asked when Hadrian met him outside.

“Not really. I saw Thrace,” Hadrian said as they walked. “She doesn’t look good. She’s thin, real thin and pale. They have her begging for clothes from some sniveling little clerk.”

Royce looked back, concerned. “Did she recognize you?”

Hadrian nodded. “But she didn’t say anything. She just stared.”

“I guess if she was planning to arrest us, she’d have done it by now,” Royce said, relaxing slightly.

“Arrest us? This is Thrace we’re talking about, for Maribor’s sake.”

“They’ve had her for two years—she’s the Empress Modina now.”

“Yeah, but…”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Hadrian said, remembering the look on Thrace’s face. “She doesn’t look well. I’m not sure what’s going on in the palace, but it’s not good. And I promised her father I’d look out for her.”

Royce shook his head in frustration. “Can we focus on one rescue at a time? For a man in retirement, you’re really busy. Besides, Theron’s idea of success was to get his eldest son a cooper’s shop. I think he might settle for his daughter being crowned empress. Now, let’s get down to the wharf. We need to find the Emerald Storm.”





Chapter





4

The Race


The imperial capital of Aquesta, while not as large or as wealthy as Colnora, was the most powerful city in Avryn. The palace dated back to before the age of Glenmorgan and was originally a governor’s residence in the ancient days of the Novronian Empire. Scholars pointed to the gray rock of the castle’s foundation with pride and boasted about how imperial engineers from Percepliquis had laid it. Here, at Highcourt Fields, great tournaments were held each Wintertide. The best knights from all of Apeladorn arrived to compete in jousting, fencing, and other contests of skill. These weeklong events included an ongoing feast for the nobles and provided healthy revenue for the merchants, who showed their wares along the streets. The city became a carnival of sights and sounds that attracted visitors for hundreds of miles.

Much of Aquesta’s economic sucess came from possessing the largest and busiest saltwater port in Avryn. The docks were awash with all manner of sailing watercraft. Brigs, trawlers, grain ships, merchant vessels, and warships all anchored in its harbor. To the south lay the massive shipyard along with rope, net, and sail manufacturers. The northern end of the bay held the wharf and its fish houses, livestock pens, lumberyards, and tar boilers. All the industries of the sea and sea-going were represented.

“Which one is the Emerald Storm?” Hadrian asked, looking at the forest of masts and rigging that lined the docks.

“Let’s try asking at the information office.” Royce hooked his thumb at a tavern perched on the edge of the dock. The wooden walls were bleached white with salt and the clapboards warped like ocean waves. The door hung askew off leather hinges, and above it a weathered sign in the shape of a fish announced: The Salty Mackerel.

The tavern had few windows, leaving the interior dim and smoky. Each tiny table had a melted candle, and a weak fire smoldered in a round brick hearth in the center of the room. Men packed the place, dressed in loose trousers, long checkered shirts, and wide brimmed hats with glossy tops. Many sat with pipes in mouths and feet on tables. Some stood leaning against posts. All heads turned when they entered, and Hadrian realized that they stood out in their tunics and cloaks.

“Hello.” Hadrian smiled as he struggled to close the door. The wind whistled through and snuffed out three candles nearest them. “Sorry, could use some better hinges.”

“Iron hinges rust overnight here,” the bartender said. The thin, crooked man wiped the counter with one hand while gathering empty mugs in the other. “What do you two want?”

“Looking for the Emerald Storm,” Royce spoke up.

Neither took more than a step inside. None of the haggard faces looked friendly, and Hadrian liked the comfort of a nearby exit.

“Whatcha want with it?” another man asked.

“We heard it was a good ship, and we were wondering if there are any openings for sailors.”

This brought a riotous round of laughter.

“And where be these sailors who be lookin’ fer a job?” another voice bellowed from within the murky haze. “Certainly not two sand crabs like you.”

More laughter.

“So, what you’re saying isyou don’t know anything about the Emerald Storm. Is that right?” Royce returned in a cutting tone that quieted the room.

“The Storm is an imperial ship, lad,” the crooked man told them, “and it’s all pressed up. They’re only taking seasoned-salts now—if there’s any room left a’tall.”

“If yer lookin’ fer work, the fishery always needs gutters. That’s about as close to seafaring work as is likely for you two.”

Once more the room filled with boisterous laughter.

Hadrian looked at Royce who shoved the door open and with a scowl stepped outside. “Thanks for the advice,” Hadrian told everyone, before following his partner.

They sat on the Mackerel’s steps, staring at the line of ships across the street. Spires of wood draped with tethered cloth looked like ladies getting dressed for a ball. Hadrian wondered if that was why they always referred to ships as women.

“What now?” he asked softly.

Royce sat hunched with his chin on his hands. “Thinking,” was all he said.

Behind them the door scraped open, and the first thing Hadrian noticed was a wide-brimmed hat with one side pinned up by a lavish blue plume.

The face beneath the hat was familiar, and Royce recognized him immediately. “Wyatt Deminthal.”

Wyatt hesitated as he locked eyes with Royce. He stood with one foot still inside. He did not look surprised to see them, he was merely questioning the wisdom of advancing, like a child who approached a dog that unexpectedly growled. For a heartbeat no one said a word, then Wyatt gritted his teeth and pulled the door shut behind him.

“I can get you on the Storm,” he said quickly.

Royce narrowed his eyes. “How?”

“I’m quartermaster and helmsman. They’re short a cook and can always use another topman. She’s ready to sail as soon as a shipment from the palace arrives.”