The Coldest Sea Page 3

  She felt dead already, her skin crusted over with salt and her eyes so swollen she could barely see. She might have been rowing in circles for the past day or two. And the ocean was a waking nightmare—both featureless and alien, with the occasional flash of sea creatures into view. Whales and worse seemed to thrive in freezing water. Once, something unseen had struck her boat from below, nearly tipping it over. She’d drawn her knife—a little splinter compared to the bulk of the beast beneath her—and clutched at the side of the boat, but whatever had struck her had swum back down into the depths.

  She longed to be back in Bleakhaven, whatever the consequences for that might be. Or on Palemount. Which was ironic, since the whole purpose of her desperate suicide journey was to find a safe way off it.

  She uncapped her flask of water and drank a single careful swallow. It was noon by then, but she was so tired she couldn’t hold her head up straight. She’d sleep for a few hours and then keep rowing, but before she pulled her fur-lined hood over her head so she could lie across the thwarts, she took one last look around.

  A white flicker showed over the horizon.

  Fear closed a hand on Ruay’s heart, stopping it. White meant Palemount, and if she’d somehow found her way back—or been led there by treacherous currents in foreign waters—she could only imagine what would happen.

  Then the tip of something darker appeared. Ruay squinted, fighting to focus her blurred vision. Her mouth was dry despite the water, her entire body suspended so she couldn’t breathe. Please.

  It was a mast. Sails hid the rest of it, but that was unmistakably a ship. She closed her eyes against the painful hope. If that was a hallucination…

  When she opened her eyes, the ship remained there. She felt like crying with relief, but she only straightened her aching back and whispered, “Thank you.” He might, after all, hear that too.

  She couldn’t make out the ship’s flags, but that didn’t matter. No matter whose path she crossed, she had to make them go to Palemount.

  The exhaustion faded—a little. The stiff muscles of her face moved into what might have been a smile as she dipped her oars into the water and began to row, with the last of her strength, towards the ship.

  Chapter Two

  Castaway

  Vinsen ran the polishing cloth over the back of the little horse, occasionally pausing to test the satiny smoothness of the driftwood with a fingertip. The horse stood on a plinth, since the first time he’d tried to carve one rearing, the horse had looked more like the ship’s dog when she did her sit-up-and-beg trick. Standing, it looked mostly equine—mane tossed, shards of shell for eyes. He could give it to Maggie once it was done, if it felt like the right carving for her by that point. He was rational in every other aspect of his life, but not when it came to carving; there, he went by what his intuition told him.

  He worked steadily in the on-again, off-again sunlight from the window until someone knocked on the door. It was well past midday by then, but not yet time for supper. On Mistral, that might have been one of his officers needing a word with him, or his steward coming in with a cup of coffee.

  On Fallstar, he couldn’t think what it might be. When he’d first come aboard to take up his duties, he’d tried to plot new courses, maybe shave a day or two off their traveling time, but that hadn’t worked. The crew had made the same short-haul runs for longer than he had, and in any case, they had no intention of changing what had been good enough for Parrick Chansver, who’d commanded the ship before him. So he’d stopped plotting courses and looking over charts, especially since the second mate was as good with navigation as he was.

  It was Joama who opened his cabin door—no steward on Fallstar, not that he needed one. He had hardly any meaningful duties on the ship, so waiting on himself at least filled up some of his time. Whatever had happened, it had to be very important for her to come to him. Setting the horse aside, he wondered idly if a mast could have fallen without him either hearing or feeling it.

  Joama stood in the doorway, a fur hood framing her masklike face. “Captain, we’ve sighted a boat.”

  Vinsen frowned. “Go on.”

  “Three points off the port bow, sir. A mile distant. One person, rowing in our direction.”

  So it came from the direction of the ocean. No way to tell whether it was from a Denalait ship or whether that was some trick, at least not until the boat was nearer. There was no longer significant pirate activity in the islands off Denalay’s shores, but that didn’t mean the Archipelago was completely scoured—yet.

  On his way to the door, he snagged a spyglass, and Joama stepped aside for him. She said nothing more as they made their way up the nearest ladder. Topside, the sun played hide-and-seek with clouds as the crew moved about their tasks.

  Vinsen went to the port gunwale and snapped the spyglass out to its full length, focusing on a speck in the distance. The rowboat seemed much farther away than the mile Joama had estimated, though that was due to the wind carrying Fallstar faster than the person could row. Especially since that person seemed to be slumped over the oars. Impossible to see who they were at that distance.

  Without turning to look, he knew the officers on deck—Joama and Evrett, the sailing master—would be waiting to see what he did. Lowering the spyglass, he ordered the sails turned so they were no longer hauling the wind, to give the rowboat a chance to catch up. Fallstar, intended to stay close to the coast like a dog on a leash, had no weaponry, so he wouldn’t take her anywhere near what might be a trap.

  The sailing master shouted commands to the crew. Vinsen thought it was pleasant to be obeyed without question, though that was only because they might be facing a common enemy. He kept watching, aware of sheets being reeled in and yards adjusted overhead. The figure straightened up and pulled at an oar.

  Fallstar kept moving, since the wind was brisk, but most of her speed had been killed and a current carried the little rowboat onward as well. Vinsen couldn’t see anything under the heavy wrappings of raw furs. He hoped to the Unity the person wasn’t the sole survivor of a capsized vessel. The more superstitious among the crew had only endured him because the Admiralty had inflicted him on them. They would have no reason to do the same for whoever this was, and a double helping of the same ill luck would be too much for them to stomach.

  As soon as the boat was close enough, he turned to give the next order, but Joama was ahead of him and tossed out a line. It fell short, but she pulled it back and whirled it about her head to give it more momentum. She had the strong arms every sailor developed, and when she sent it flying through the air, it smacked into the rowboat. The person inside caught it and made it fast about a thwart. Joama tossed the other end to two of the deckhands, who reeled the boat in.

  Vinsen put a hand to his left hip reflexively as the boat came closer. No sword there now, of course, but he had his knife. There were plenty of makeshift weapons close at hand too, since the deck of any sailing ship had belaying pins and coils of rope.

  Not that he intended to allow the person anywhere near his deck until he was certain there was no danger.

  The wind ebbed a little, and Fallstar’s sails slackened. Vinsen moved to the gunwale, pushing the spyglass into his belt to have both hands free. The deckhands pulled the boat up to the ship’s hull and the person inside shipped the oars. A hood fell back.

  Long dark hair framed her face, but what caught Vinsen’s attention was the band of brown speckles which made its way down the right side of her face, enclosing her eye and disappearing past her collar. A Bleakhavener? He’d never heard of their ships venturing so far south. The woman was well into Denalait territorial waters, although there was no hostility between the two lands.

  Yet, said his cynical side.

  But blazes could be faked, so he called out to her. “This is the Denalait vessel Fallstar. What do you want?”

  Leaning over the oars, the woman
lifted her head and passed her tongue over her lips. “My name is Ruay Balquinax.” Her voice was hoarse and strangely accented, but clear enough. “There—there was an iceberg and it struck our ship.”

  An iceberg. Vinsen set his teeth; he’d never actually seen what one of those could do to a ship, but he’d heard plenty. Bleakhavener vessels were designed to break through pack ice, but that didn’t mean they could stand up to an iceberg collision, and what usually killed the survivors wasn’t drowning—it was freezing to death in the ocean.

  But that didn’t answer the question of what she was doing so far from home. Surely any survivors in Bleakhavener waters should have rowed to their shores, rather than Denalay’s. “How long ago was that?”

  “Three weeks, four. I don’t know.” She closed her eyes. “Please, even if you can’t help us, can you give me some water?”

  Her voice certainly sounded as though she’d gone without drinking for most of those three weeks or four. Vinsen considered it, but made up his mind fast. Fallstar’s supplies wouldn’t be stretched by the addition of one person, especially since the ship stayed so close to the coast, and what was the alternative? He could hardly turn her away. If news of her death reached Bleakhaven, he could have a diplomatic incident on his hands, as if his career wasn’t ruined enough already. And he had enough dead people on his mind without adding another one.

  Besides, he wanted to learn a little more about the disaster. He nodded at Joama, and she had a rope ladder tossed down, since Ruay Balquinax didn’t seem strong enough to climb a line.

  Word of the stranger had spread, as it always did, and some of the off-duty crew came topside for a look. Vinsen ordered them back down, and although they didn’t look pleased, they obeyed. He stepped aside to make room for the woman. Joama and the sailing master took their cues from him, making a wary half-circle as the woman climbed over the gunwale.

  Now he was downwind of her, she did smell on the rank side; those furs might not have been changed in years. She held the rail behind her as though she would collapse if she let go.

  “Give her some water,” he said to the nearest of the deckhands. The man saluted—Fallstar didn’t have a brig, but Vinsen wouldn’t hesitate to dock the pay of anyone showing him disrespect—and brought her a full dipper. The woman took a deep gulp.

  Then she spat the water out, her face twisting. “This is salty.”

  Good idea, Vinsen thought as the deckhand mumbled an apology and another man went for fresh water. Pirates could drink seawater with no ill effects, though if she really was one of them tricked out as a Bleakhavener, that reaction could be faked too.

  When the second dipper was given to her, the woman took a cautious sip and then drank it all. She handed the dipper back reluctantly, as if she would have liked to lick it dry.

  “Thank you, Captain.” Her voice was still hoarse, but she seemed a little less likely to drop at any moment. “May—may I speak to you privately?”

  Vinsen had expected that, though it could be a completely innocent request. After all, even if she just needed to know whether he would leave her at the coast, she might not want to carry on a conversation with half the ship gawking.

  “Certainly,” he said. “Shall we say, in a quarter of an hour? That will give you enough time to refresh yourself.” The woman nodded. “Joama Kley, my first mate, will see to your needs.”

  He moved aside, and Joama went with him, her eyes sharp as needles in her unrevealing face. “Take her to your cabin,” he said, speaking so quietly she had to lean closer to hear him, “and give her some clean clothes. You’re about her size.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get a good look while she changes into them. I want to know how far down that blaze goes.”

  “It might be easier to take rubbing alcohol to her face.”

  “You want to accept the responsibility for that if she turns out to be related to some higher-up in Bleakhaven?”

  Joama tilted her head as if to concede the point. “I’ll bring her to your cabin in a quarter of an hour.”

  Vinsen didn’t have too many fears for her. Joama could handle herself in a fight, and more importantly, she was too wary to be tricked into one.

  “Evrett, you’ll be on hand when I meet with our guest,” he said to the sailing master, then turned to the nearest deckhand. What was the man’s name? Then, thankfully, he remembered. “Dannel. Pass the word for the doctor. And Cutwater, prepare something hot.”

  “Yessir,” the cook answered, and bustled away. The boatswain dispersed the rest of the crew, sending them back to their duties, and despite Vinsen’s indifference, he took a last look as the crew swarmed up the rigging or went about their work on the deck. That reminded him of another thing he’d never done on Fallstar, check the ship for soundness. The one time he had started an inspection, Joama had let him know she’d taken care of it already.

  Attend to the matter at hand. He went to his cabin. Evrett followed, and Vinsen opened a flask of rum as the doctor arrived. Andray Ciura looked as rumpled as always, glasses perched a little askew on his nose, but he expressed some interest in examining the woman, since he’d never had a Bleakhavener patient before.

  “Assuming she is a Bleakhavener,” he said as he accepted the glass Vinsen handed him. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.” Vinsen sat down, feeling a little more relaxed even with the officers in his cabin. Conversation was still desultory, though at least Dr. Ciura admired the latest carving. Evrett said as technical skill went, the little seahawks were fine, but he felt their eyes all followed him around the room.

  That’s the idea, Vinsen thought but decided not to say. The door opened a few moments later, and Joama showed the Bleakhavener woman in.

  Vinsen would hardly have recognized her if not for the distinctive blaze. It looked exactly as though someone had spattered a brush loaded with brown paint over a narrow strip of parchment, but if Joama had showed her into the captain’s cabin, it was more likely real. As he’d expected, she fitted into Joama’s clothes, and her hair was combed neatly back.

  He got up to offer Ruay a chair, and Joama tossed a knife on the table, the blade in a sealskin sheath. “That belongs to…” She allowed her voice to trail off.

  “Ruay.” The woman didn’t make any attempt to reach for the knife.

  Ruay. Vinsen asked her to spell that and her last name as he wrote those into the ship’s log. Then he drew the knife to test its blade on the ball of his thumb. Good thing Joama had taken it off her.

  He was careful not to touch the sealskin as he replaced the knife, though he knew his dislike was unfounded. The pirates whom he had once fought wore sealskins, yes, but that didn’t mean decent people couldn’t do the same thing.

  “We’ll have some food served soon.” He poured Ruay rum, but she stopped him before he could fill the glass, and murmured her thanks as she topped it with water. “For now, what did you want to say to us?”

  “Captain…” She hesitated. “May I have the privilege of knowing your name?”

  He supposed there was no harm in telling her. “Solarcis.”

  “Captain Solarcis.” She pronounced it slowly, as if afraid she’d stumble over all the s sounds, then finished her watered-down rum. A faint, barely perceptible color had stolen into her face by then. She had the palest skin he’d ever seen, though Bleakhaven was so far north that was only to be expected.

  “My husband is the medic on Stavister,” she said, “an exploration vessel owned by the Concordium of Bleakhaven. We weren’t more than ten days into our voyage when we struck an iceberg. The last I know, eight of us were alive.”

  “Where are the others?” Vinsen asked.

  “On the iceberg.”

  Joama frowned, and Vinsen didn’t find it particularly plausible either. “You were able to reach an iceberg from a sinking ship, and
there was room on it for eight of you?”

  “Oh, there were more of us originally. Stavister’s crew numbered sixty-two. And the iceberg is…fairly large.”

  “Then why didn’t your lookouts see it?”

  “It was a moonless night, and they didn’t give a warning in time. The iceberg ripped the guts out of our ship.” Her lips pressed together until they were almost bloodless. “Some people managed to swim to the ice, but they were soaked through and they froze to death. The rest of us stayed afloat on wreckage or boats, but the corpses were attracting sea creatures and the first officer said we’d be safer together on the iceberg. At least that was too large for an orca to overturn.”

  “Go on.” Vinsen had some doubts about that story, but he wanted to see how much more she would divulge on her own.

  “We burned all the wood except for that one boat to stay warm, and hollowed out part of the ice for shelter. The captain had a badly broken leg and we had no way to treat that—we had hardly any food, let alone medicine. He died after five days.”

  “And then you floated for a month?”

  She nodded. “What choice did we have? The iceberg was drifting and we didn’t know where it was headed, only that it was taking us south. Some argued that it would be safer to stay on the iceberg until it drifted into a shipping lane rather than to simply strike out. But our food started to run out and—and we didn’t have a choice any longer.”

  “How much food could you have had?” Joama cut in. “You escaped from a sinking ship in the middle of the night, didn’t you?”

  “We certainly weren’t able to carry much off the ship.” Ruay’s voice changed when she spoke to Joama—it wasn’t as subdued, let alone respectful. “But there was a seal colony living on the ice. And…well, there were corpses.”