Forty-Five Nomad

FORTY-FIVE

Nomad

SAMUEL

T he following day dawned snowy, somber, and hushed. A note arrived from my uncle inviting Ben and I to take the noon meal with him at one of Renown's many inns. A dinner invitation would have been more likely to include other powerful men and women— no dinner table was to be wasted, especially in times of conflict. It would have been a chance to share more of what we had learned and to impress upon those in power the need for quick action.

A private luncheon did not bode well for how our news had been received.

I left the invitation on the table next to Mr. Pitten's crumpled, unopened letter, staring out the window past a mug of cold coffee. The ship was quiet, the crew at rest or on shore, with only the usual creaks and distant footfalls to disturb the ringing quiet. The warm weather had turned as it so often did in spring, and thick, fat snowflakes fell beyond the gallery windows, muffling the sounds of the port and immediately melting on the waves. The flat-fronted buildings on the docks looked like a painting, with snow-dusted ships in the foreground, the specks of townsfolk going about their days, and layer upon layer of white-patched roofs and chimney smoke fading into the overcast gloom of Fort Renown.

My gaze inevitably returned to Mr. Pitten's letter. Moving with disconnected precision, I popped the seal and unfolded the many creases in the parchment. Inside I found a square of words in a serviceable, unadorned hand. I dropped my eyes to the signature first. J. Pitten .

The author of this letter had been one of those who manipulated my mother into funding them, who had convinced her to poison and torture her own sons. They were the reason she had been locked away for her own good and had, eventually, died.

Fury made my neck flush and my ears roar. I jerked at my cravat to loosen it and read the letter twice. An offer of aid. Reverence. I gave a bitter huff and imagined Ben stepping into a meeting of worshipful Black Tide devotees. The scenario played out like a fox in a henhouse, and, in my imagining, I did not intervene.

Soon though, my visceral reaction to the letter cooled into something more calculating. I scanned it a third time, pulling out individual points and turning them over more slowly in my mind.

If the Black Tide knew there was more to this spring's tide than usual, how did they know it? They were not the Ess Noti, with their Dark Observatories and ghisten saints. They were peasants dancing naked in the moss, and they had no way to communicate with the Midden Ghist, even if he was inclined to share.

Yet they, and the Midden Ghist, were here.

I have more to tell you, revelations that should not be rendered to text . That line stayed with me the longest, and, through my lingering rage and resentment, I forced myself to consider just what Pitten might have to say. For all their manipulations and crimes, the Black Tide had succeeded in amplifying Ben and I, even if they corrupted us in the process. They were the only ones in Aeadine—let alone the Anchorage—who might know more about the Black Tides than us.

I picked up my cold cup of coffee and drained it, then went to find Mary.

"What does he mean, ‘in light of what is to come'?" Mary asked, seated on a rickety chair next to the stove in her cabin. She leaned back against the bulkhead, her arm precariously close to the stove, her ankles stacked beneath her skirts and a thick quilt I vaguely remembered her sewing. Several patches of fabric—mustard-yellow with pale-green motifs—looked suspiciously like one of my cravats, which had gone missing several months ago.

Mary waved the letter, pointing at the words in question. "Does he know about the Mereish Fleet? Or is this all about the Black Tide and their rituals? Perhaps they've concluded there is more power in the spring tides than usual."

"That troubled me too," I admitted, thinking of all the harm the cult could do to the mages of the Anchorage if given the chance. "Would you and Tane accompany me to meet with Mr. Pitten? I must learn more but I cannot… should not, do so alone."

Her expression remained serious. "Of course."

"We must alert the Uknaras," I went on. "They can intervene if anything goes awry. Perhaps Mr. Grant can keep watch on Ben. He should not be anywhere near the cultists. Where is Ms. Alamay?"

"She went ashore," Mary replied, scanning the letter again. "Mr. Penn told me."

"Oh?" I prompted, but Mary only shrugged.

"She's not a prisoner."

"She is a spy."

"A spy who grows hungry and perhaps needs to buy a change of clothing, perhaps a book to read while sitting in her cabin until we drop her in Hesten or whatever she intends to do." Mary waved the matter aside. "Sam, what should I expect? I have no experience with the Black Tide Cult. They were not welcome in my village, though I do remember them gathering in the Ghistwold in spring for their ceremonies until the Foresters chased them out. They would camp in the woods, and sometimes I would hear them singing. The village boys said they saw them dancing naked, in the cold. Even in the snow. Spring is not warm in the Ghistwold, even if the trees think it's already high summer."

She sounded far more concerned about the cold than the nudity of the dancers, and, against all odds, a smile tugged the corner of my lips. Then I recalled my mother had often been one of those celebrants and the smile faded.

Mary studied me, obviously trying to parse my thoughts. "I can go with Charles," she suggested. "On your behalf."

"That will not be necessary." I took the letter back from her and folded it, then stowed it in my pocket. "I must do this. We will find out what they are doing and deliver any pertinent information to the Admiralty."

"They do believe us, right?" she asked, her eyes distant and her thoughts deep. "About Mereish magecraft? I know matters with the Usti are more complex, but…"

"Hopefully I can gain some sense of that when I speak to my uncle," I promised. "Ben and I will meet him at noon today. Would you come with us?"

Her brows furrowed. "Why?"

I came closer and leaned over her chair, planting my hands on its back, to either side of her head. "Because I want him to see you for the person that you are and not a weather witch unjustly stolen from the fleet."

"Are you concerned?" she asked, meeting my eyes. "That the Navy will try to take me?"

"I always am," I replied somberly. "But he is the head of my family. I would like my intentions with you to be clear and known."

She cocked her head, sparse inches from mine, and laced her arms over her chest.

"Your rumored intentions," she said tartly. "I've heard of these but still rarely experience them."

I kissed her, light and soft, more breath than touch, and enjoyed a flush of satisfaction as she stilled, head tilted back, waiting for more.

As I retreated, she made a discontented sound.

"Noon," I said.

* * *

As the church bells of Renown tolled half past eleven, I heard a shout off the larboard bow.

"Samuel Rosser!"

I squinted into the sun to see a familiar, black-hulled ship dropping anchor.

For a moment, I saw the predatory, three-masted vessel as he had once been— Nameless —with a faceless figurehead and a captain who had tormented the Winter Sea for decades. Now he was called Nomad —bearing a striking figurehead of a cloaked monk with all but his wide, shouting mouth hidden beneath a grey cowl—and a figure in a bicorn hat stood at the forecastle.

"Captain Fisher!" I called back, a grin in my voice. I leaned over the rail. "What brings you to Renown?"

"Yes, I accept your kind invitation to table!" she shouted back, making a show of cupping her hands around her ears. "Send a boat for me seven o'clock!"

I laughed. "Yes, Captain!"

"Very good, Captain!" Fisher waved her hat, then strolled away across the deck of her ship.

I turned, catching the attention of Poverly as the girl crossed the deck, pink-cheeked in the cold. "Ms. Poverly, be so good as to go inform Mr. Willoughby we will have a guest at table this evening, and use the good wine."

"Yessir." Poverly touched the curls bursting from her cap and darted away across the deck.

Mary glanced at the girl as she passed, then looked from me to Nomad . Her eyebrows rose. "Helena?"

Mary had clearly put a great deal of thought into her appearance today—her hair swept up and her cheeks rouged. I could not see what she was wearing beneath her thick, cloak-like coat, but the garment itself was fine, blue with a fringe of white fur around an expansive hood. She looked older than her years, the powerful Stormsinger I knew her to be. My uncle, I was sure, would see the same.

"I was unaware that tents were considered formal attire," Ben commented, joining us with the collar of his overcoat popped and his eyes slightly shadowed. "Shall we?"

* * *

Admiral Rosser surveyed the three of us as the staff of the well-appointed inn The Gilded Peacock finished depositing shallow bowls of soup before us and filed out of the room. The chamber was large, clearly meant for a larger company, but it was warm and had an unparalleled view of the sea west of Renown.

My dreamer's senses overlaid the blurry line of the blue-and-grey horizon with a fleet, specks growing to towers of sails, the sparks of cannon muzzles and the whistle of shot.

I blinked the imagining away.

"I do not remember inviting your weather witch," the admiral stated, addressing Ben and I and ignoring Mary. My guard immediately rose—Admiral Rosser was in one of his darker moods. His movements were abrupt, his words sharp-edged, and there was tension in his eyes that bordered on resentment. "This is highly irregular."

Mary smiled politely and sipped at a cup of wine.

"I believed it prudent for you to become acquainted," I said, my spine stiff. "Mary Firth is a member of my crew."

I almost added that she was more than that, but my uncle's demeanor told me that would not go over well today. I had rarely seen him in such a state—the most recent being when I resigned my commission in disgrace.

"Then why did you not bring your carpenter? Where is your bosun?" Admiral Rosser gestured to the rest of the table. "By all means, send for them!"

"I take it our news was not well received," Ben cut in, fishing grains of fine black rice from his amber onion soup.

The older man pried his gaze from Mary and surveyed Ben with frayed patience. "The approach of the Mereish Fleet was taken quite seriously, I assure you. We were, you understand, already on alert—the growing tides have not precisely been subtle, nor certain unnatural appearances of the Other and its moons and the increasing power of mages. The return of various ships to Mere was certainly marked."

"Why did we come here at all, then?" Ben asked coldly.

"You gave us clarity and direction, knowing when and where the Mereish Fleet will strike." The admiral somehow made the words sound utterly devoid of praise. "Regarding the new Mereish magics, that is not something I am at liberty to discuss. Nor is the matter of Jessin Faucher's assertions about the Usti—though again, I advise you to cast them from your minds."

Mary had yet to touch her soup, but she held her spoon on the table with pointed care.

"But the Admiralty is taking action?" she asked. I noticed she made an effort to smooth her rural accent. That she felt the need to do so, that my uncle had already treated her with such disregard, irked me more than my ignorance of the Admiralty's decisions. "The matter is being brought to the queen? I know we've little time to arm ourselves against ensorcelled shot and the like, but surely some defenses can be—"

"The queen? Woman, do you have even a base understanding of how this nation is run?" Admiral Rosser's eyelids fluttered in disbelief. He gestured to the door. "You are excused."

Ben's head swiveled to watch me. He sat back slightly, a spectator preparing for the curtain to rise.

"Admiral Rosser," I cut in. "I brought Ms. Firth for a reason—"

"To insult me? To disregard my wishes?" the admiral returned. "Samuel, this woman is hardly housebroken. Questioning me? She is an asset, that is all, and unfit company." His gaze hardened at the last, making it very clear what kind of company he assumed Mary and I were keeping. "I intended to speak with my nephews in privacy."

I rose and offered Mary my hand, my mind already storming out the door.

Mary, however, did not move. Instead, Tane manifested. She left Mary's skin like river mist and took form, standing directly behind Mary with her hands resting on the chair back. As she did, the entire room trembled, just enough to make the soup and the contents of our cups quiver.

The hair on the back of my neck rose.

"Admiral Rosser." Tane's deeper tones laced Mary's voice, slipping from the Stormsinger's lips with calm precision and—I noted with satisfaction—Mary's own accent. "A man of your station can't be ignorant of the Mereish's beliefs about their High Captains, even if the extent of their true abilities is cloaked in rumor. So I tell you now, I am the same as them. And if you expect any aid from me or my kind in the coming battle, you will speak to me with respect."

Ben, picking up his soup bowl with both hands, leaned back in his chair and began to sip.

Admiral Rosser rose. Looking from Mary to me in astonishment and not a little unease, he leaned to brace his hands on the table. "What is this?"

"We are ghiseau ," Tane replied through Mary. "I am a Mother Ghisting, but I am Mary, and Mary is me."

Admiral Rosser stared at Mary and Tane for another long, long moment. Then he gave a slow incline of his head and sat back down. One thing was clear—either my uncle had become considerably more open-minded in recent years, or the existence of ghiseau was no great shock.

"I beg your forgiveness, Ms. Firth," he said, and cleared his throat. "Perhaps I should speak more candidly. Samuel, sit. Let us begin again."

By the time the main course was served, the reason for my uncle's anxiety was clear.

"We have suspected a change in the winds for some time," he said as our food grew cold—all save Ben's, which had long vanished. "First, you must understand, strange accounts of conflict with the Mereish have always abounded, but High Captains and their High Ships are not common, and none have ever been captured and held alive. One was taken in the last season of the war—the one in which your mother served, Ms. Firth—but they killed themselves within hours.

"More recently, I have heard the accounts of Aeadine Magni who claim their powers did not affect certain Mereish enemies. So too did I hear of a Sooth who claimed her sight had been cut off during an engagement with the Mereish, in which she was shot. However, when she awoke after surgery, she was restored and the matter explained by blood fugue and injury. No one suspected the musket ball might be the culprit."

"Thus, nothing has been done yet," Ben observed.

"The items you retrieved and your notes will go a long way to convincing the world to both believe and act, though it will take more time than we now have, with the Great Tide approaching." The admiral inclined his head to Mary again. Tane had retreated and she appeared herself once more. "As will Ms. Firth's and Mother Tane's bond. That is, if you are willing to make yourself known beyond the confines of this room."

While I relished the notion of the world acknowledging Mary and all that she was, I feared it too. Mary would not simply be a powerful Stormsinger. She would be a singular anomaly. That could either protect her or put her at greater risk than ever before.

"I'm not," Mary said, to my selfish relief. "I won't be bought or threatened or puppeted, and I know that will be my fate if I come forward publicly. I'll sing against the Mereish from Hart , do what I can, and I'll go my own way when I'm done. Let my actions speak for themselves in my absence."

"Very well," my uncle said, looking to his meal. "Now, eat, and I will tell you all I can."