The Emerald Storm (The Riyria Revelations #4)

“Oh, yeah, and it was like there were two moons out tonight his face was so pale.”


Royce checked the lines and the mountings of the hammock Poe had installed for him and looked generally pleased with the work.

“To be honest, I’m surprised Defoe didn’t suffer an accidental fall.”

Royce shook his head. “Two accidents off my mast is just bad planning. Besides, Defoe wasn’t trying to kill me.”

“Sure looked that way from where I was standing. And it seemed pretty organized too.”

“You think so?” he asked sitting on the crate of biscuits Poe had brought up for the morning’s breakfast. “It’s not how I would do it. First, why stage the fight in a room full of witnesses? If they had killed me, they would hang. Second, why attack me below? Like I said, the sea is the perfect place to dispose of a body and the closer to the rail you get your victim, the easier it is.”

“Then what do you think they were up to?”

Royce pursed his lips and shook his head. “I have no idea. If it was a diversion to rifle our belongings, why not hold it topside? For that matter, why bother with a diversion at all? There have been plenty of times while we were on deck to go through our stuff.”

“You think it was just to intimidate us?”

“If it was, it wasn’t Defoe’s idea. Threatening to kill me but not finishing the job is famously fatal. He would know that.”

“So, Derning put them up to it?”

“Maybe, but…I don’t know. Derning doesn’t seem like someone Defoe would take orders from—at least, not such stupid orders.”

“Makes sense, so then—”

The muffled thump, like another body hitting the deck, brought them to their feet. Hadrian threw open the door of the galley and cautiously looked about the deck.

The larboard watch was on duty but rather than the typical watch-and-snooze routine, they were hard at work running a boat drill. They hoisted the longboat from the yard and had it over the side where it bumped the gunwale once more before being lowered into the sea.

“Odd time for a lifeboat drill,” Wyatt said, walking toward them from the shelter of the forecastle.

“Trouble sleeping?” Royce asked.

Wyatt beamed a grin. “Look who else is on duty,” he told them, pointing at the quarterdeck where Sentinel Thranic, Mister Beryl, Doctor Levy, and Defoe stood talking.

They slipped around the forecastle, moving quickly to the bow. Looking over the rail, Hadrian saw six men rowing toward a nearby light.

“Another ship,” Royce muttered.

“Really?”

“A small, single mast schooner. No flag.”

“Is there anything in the longboat?” Hadrian asked. “If that’s payment going to—”

Royce shook his head. “Just the crew.”

They watched as the sound of the oars faded, then waited. Hadrian strained, peering into the darkness, but all he could see was the bobbing light of the little boat and the one marking its destination.

“Boat’s coming back,” Royce announced, “and there’s an extra head now.”

Wyatt squinted. “Who would they be picking up in the middle of the night from Delgos?”

They watched as the longboat returned. Just as Royce said, there was an additional man—a passenger. Wrapped in ship’s blankets, he was small and thin, with a long pasty face and white hair. He looked to be very old, far too old to be of any use as a sailor. He came aboard and spoke to Thranic and Doctor Levy at length. The old man’s things were gathered and deposited beside him. One of the bags came loose and two weighty, leather-bound books spilled onto the bleached deck. “Careful, my boy,” the old man cautioned the sailor. “Tho are one of a kind, and like me, are very old and sadly fragile.”

“Gather his things and take them to the guest quarters,” Thranic ordered. Glancing toward the bow, he stopped abruptly. He glared at them, licking his thin lips in thought, then slowly approached. As he did, he held his dark cloak tight, his shoulders raised to protect his neck from the cold wind. Between this and his stooped back, he resembled a scavenger bird.

“What are you all doing on deck? None of you are part of the larboard watch.”

“Off duty, sir,” Wyatt answered for them. “Just getting a bit of fresh air.”

Thranic peered at Hadrian and took a step toward him. “You’re the cook, aren’t you?”

Without thinking, Hadrian felt at his side for the hilt of his absent sword. Something about the sentinel made him flinch. Sentinels were always scary, but this one was absolutely chilling. Returning his gaze was like staring into the eyes of restrained madness.

“You joined this voyage along with…” Thranic’s eyes shifted to Royce. “This one—yes, the nimble fellow—the one so good at climbing. What’s your name? Melborn isn’t it? Royce Melborn? I heard you were seasick. How odd.”

Royce remained silent.

“Very odd, indeed.”

“Sentinel Thranic?” the old man called, his weak voice barely making the trip across the deck. “I would rather like to get out of the damp wind if I could.” He coughed.

Thranic stared a moment longer at Royce then pivoted sharply and left them.

“Not exactly the kind of guy you want taking an interest in you is he?” Wyatt offered.

With the longboat back aboard, the captain appeared on the quarterdeck and ordered a new course—due east, into the wind.





Chapter 9

Ella


“Another dispatch fr om Sir Breckton, sir,” the clerk announced, handing a small scroll to the imperial chancellor. The elderly man returned to the desk in his little office and read the note. A scowl grew across his face.

“The man is incorrigible!” The chancellor burst out to no one, then pulled a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped his quill.

The door opened unexpectedly and the chancellor jumped. “Can’t you knock?”

“Sorry, Biddings, did I startle you?” the Earl of Chadwick asked, entering with his exquisite floor-length cape trailing behind him. He had a pair of white gloves draped over one forearm as he bit into a bright red apple.

“You’re always startling me. I think you get a sadistic pleasure from it.”

Archibald smiled. “I saw the dispatch arrive. Is there any word from the Emerald Storm?”

“No, this is from Breckton.”

“Breckton? What does he want?” Archibald sat in the armchair opposite the chancellor and rested his booted feet on a footstool.

“No matter how many times I tell him to wait and be patient, he refuses to grasp that we know more than he does. He wants permission to attack Ratibor.”

Archibald sighed. “Again? I suppose you see now what I’ve had to put up with all these years. He and Enden are so headstrong I—”

“Were,” the chancellor corrected, “Sir Enden died in Dahlgren.”

Ballentyne nodded. “And wasn’t that a waste of a good man.” He took another bite and with his mouth still full went on. “Do you need me to write him personally? He is my knight after all.”