Chapter 1 chapter 1
Rue Nath, newly minted post captain and temporary commander of the Redemption, 38 guns, stood at the taffrail and smiled as he watched the island fortress of Gisbon sink below the horizon astern. His countenance was in marked contrast to Enid d’Tancreville, the noble Ardain expatriate who now served as his ship’s magister. While he wore a boyish grin which would do him no credit with the ship’s crew if they could see it, Enid’s lips were set in a grim line and her forehead was creased with worry.

Perhaps sorcerers as accomplished as Enid must adopt such a long view that they are robbed of the ability to live in the moment, Nath thought. Out loud, he said, “Come now, Enid, how can you frown at the spectacle of such a great tower of stone vanishing like lost Eressea beneath the waves? See how the old fortifications are pricked out in white under the forenoon sun? It reminds me of a passage from one of Maupin’s plays—”

“Yes, yes,” Enid said. “It is lovely. I am more concerned with the sea and sky before us, however. Mid Yeardly remarked that the hazy smudge on the horizon is likely to be heavy weather. I have yet to learn to revel in the crazed rocking of a vessel beset by storm, and I find the approach of a tempest daunting.”

“The barometer is sinking,” Nath admitted. “But not so rapidly as to indicate what I would call heavy weather. Simply weather. Certainly not a tempest. You should adopt a sailor’s view of nature’s capriciousness and enjoy the sun while it shines but prepare for the inevitable storms. Take the middle ground between the grasshopper and the ant.”

“Your allusion escapes me.”

“Oh, it regards a common fable praising ants who labor to the exclusion of pleasure to prepare for lean times and chastising grasshoppers for their short-sighted profligacy.”

“It may surprise you to learn cautionary tales concerning carefree excess are not common among the more aristocratic circles to which my family belonged.” There was a touch of dark humor in Enid’s voice, but Nath was relieved her tone lost some of its gloom. “I will strive to take your advice to heart. I must say your serenity in the face of what awaits us at Middlesea surprises me.”

“I am quite sensible of the potential ruin of my reputation a court-martial represents, Enid. But there is naught I can do about it now, save prepare to defend myself as well as I may.” Nath’s smile was vaguely apologetic. “I am satisfied my logs will speak for themselves. If they do not, my fate was predetermined by Lord Ambrose’s friends in Admiralty, and any failing is in their character, not mine.”

“Forgive me, but you sound as fatalistic as a Malasfandyari mystic.”

“Not fatalistic, I assure you,” Nath smiled. “I will fight tooth and nail to defend myself, but there are no foes before me now, only a bright day, an amiable breeze, and a fine sailing vessel beneath my feet.”

“Again, I find your serenity admirable!”

“Admire it while you may,” Nath said with a grin. “I reckon it will be a much rarer commodity once I’ve trod Admiral Morrin’s carpet and received formal notice of my court-martial.”

Enid mustered a thin smile for his jest and left him to his own company to conduct practical magic lessons for the young gentles. Alone on the quarterdeck, Nath loosed a long sigh. Poor Enid, he thought. She may have pinned her fate on a falling star.

He closed the door on the disheartening prospect with an effort and turned his face toward the warm sun and his mind toward ways to coax the best speed and handling from Redemption, even if he would not command her long enough to enact his theories.

The next three days gave Nath ample opportunity to make what changes to the rigging and displacement of cargo could be accomplished with the time and hands available to him. He was not at all pleased with the rake of Redemption’s masts, but there was nothing he could do about them at the moment. He could shift some things around the hold to throw her on a better strake for swift sailing, though, despite the remorseful expressions of some of the old Alarums who had assumed they would be on something approaching a holiday on the voyage from Gisbon to Middlesea, regardless of what might await them there. Let them grumble, Nath thought. They’ll forget all about the sweat spilled correcting the Naveroñians’ heedless packing of Redemption’s hold! We’ll make port a day earlier without her listing starboard and settled to aft like a great cow, taking her ease!

His understanding of his crew’s moods was confirmed when, at the end of their efforts, the frigate lay over half a strake and added at least a knot to her running speed. Their spontaneous cheer at the joy of it warmed his heart, as did the overheard words of one of the topmen as she descended the ratlines to the deck, “That’s our cap’n. He’s a sailor’s sailor, he is!”

Despite his short stature, he felt ten feet tall as he strode across the quarterdeck to check the current course at the binnacle. Satisfied, he called out to Yeardly, “I leave her to you, Mid Yeardly!”

The mid’s sharp salute and joyous smile broke Nath’s officerly reserve long enough for an answering wink to slip past, but it was firmly restored by the time he reached the taffrail. He stood next to one of a pair of brightly polished chase guns sited there. When he laid a hand on the grim, warlike visage of some Orthodox saint that adorned the gun, he found the metal warmed by the afternoon sun. He admired the gun frankly, and if he were the captain who received Redemption, he would fight the Board of Ordnance tooth and nail to keep it and its sibling aboard.

The Naveroñians weren’t famed for the quality of their guns, but this pair had breech marks proclaiming them to be products from the famed Ouvrard foundry in Arleonne. He was mortally certain a fleeing foe would find their accuracy disconcerting in the hands of a crack team of gunners. Perhaps I will sift out the best of the gunners aboard tomorrow and put these beauties through their paces. The gods know they’d find it a relief from wrestling with those lumps of brutish iron with which the Dons replaced Redemption’s great guns. It irked him to think of her original armament gracing the gun deck of some pigsty frigate in the kingdom’s notoriously lax “navy.”

The bleak thought passed quickly under the warm sun and cool spray of an idyllic Merentian day. He sighed contentedly. The only improvement he could imagine to the day was the taste of smoke from one of Enid’s sublime cigarillos. As appealing as he found the day’s perfection, though, he couldn’t help gazing ahead at the cloud-dulled horizon before them and speculating eagerly on how well Redemption would weather rough seas, wind, and rain.

Enid resumed the mids’ sorcery lessons on the third day out of Gisbon. The ship was now running as smoothly as could be hoped, with such an imbalanced admixture of new hands and veteran Alarums. Nath kept his mids busy drilling their divisions to blend the new hands into the ship’s people, but was careful to leave time enough for Enid to continue the training routine she established aboard Alarum. In this, as in all things it seemed, he was filled with an unshakable optimism. As Enid opened various basic instructional sorcery books to the pages pertinent to the day’s lesson and laid them out on a table in her workspace on the orlop, her opinion of Nath’s phlegmatic outlook on the future alternated between envy and irritation. His court-martial was entirely motivated by a personal grudge and political opportunism. It represented the malice of powerful enemies. Enemies who were now hers by way of association. If she were reduced to a persona non grata by Lord Ambrose Aixely’s supporters in Admiralty, she was unlikely to find a Magister’s berth again. Worse still, it seemed likely the black mark against her name would make finding a commission in an Albionic cavalry regiment just as unlikely, particularly considering Nath’s admittedly biased characterization of those regiments as cliquish social clubs for the sons of Albion’s most powerful noble families.

Her finances were not as bleak as her military prospects. She had substantial funds in Albion thanks to her father’s investments there, as well as the prize money for Redemption. She could sail far more safely to the Spice Islands or Free Colonies from Albion. Once there, she could join an expatriate regiment or stand one up herself. Realistically, though, her chances of such a regiment playing a direct role in the liberation of her homeland were slim. Most Royalist regiments were composed of old aristocrats yearning to prove their military prowess undiminished by age or young fops fascinated by colorful uniforms and certain of an easy victory over mere common folk. The Albion Royal Navy had thus far demurred from providing transport for such questionable formations, viewing such an effort as a waste of time, treasure, and cargo space.

The young gentles filed in as she finished her preparation; Yeardly first with Dinwitty in tow, then Harlech, her fair cheeks blooming from the effort of a rapid descent from the dizzying heights of the mainmast where she’d been skylarking on the pretense of observing the topmen at their duties. It was more difficult than usual to keep the mids focused on her brief lecture and demonstration. She assumed they were too excited at the prospect of a new ship to explore. Only Yeardly was attentive, despite the material being far below his competence thanks to her individual mentoring. In the end, she surrendered and closed her book with a loud clap, which elicited a startled jerk from Dinwitty.

“That is all for today, and I pray you’re never required to remember Van Dernan’s ratio to account for the difference in powder charges during an equatorial solar eclipse, which, as I say it, seems likely. Have you any questions?”

She was already rising to leave when Dinwitty piped up, asking, “Can ghosts and spirits be commanded like elementals?”

Enid sat down and regarded the young man gravely. “Have you encountered a ghost or spirit recently?”

“No, Magister, leastwise not myself. But some of the people are saying they’ve seen shadows moving belowdecks and the sound of footsteps where there weren’t nobody walking!”

“Some hands in my division say the same,” Harlech chimed in, her eyes round as saucers.

Enid glanced at Yeardly. “Are the hands practicing on Dinwitty and Harlech?”

The pock-faced older mid shook his head. “I don’t believe so. If they are, their tomfoolery extends to me as well. I’ve been approached with the same tales. Lieutenant Merryweather has been advised.”

“Good. Now, Mid Dinwitty, the answer to your question is both yes and no. Ghosts and non-elemental spirits are not subject to the same basic formulations as elementals, but they can be negotiated with. Some advanced methods can make persuading them to your cause more efficacious.”

“When do we learn those?” Dinwitty practically quivered with excitement at the prospect of commanding ghosts.

“Never.” The certitude with which Enid imbued the single word wiped the excitement from Dinwitty’s face. “None of you are prepared to treat with such powers, which are almost uniformly malefic and deceitful. You would likely lose your own soul in such an encounter. There is a reason necromancy is purely focused upon wardings, and banishment and other applications are illegal in all but the most backward and benighted societies. If you find yourself in the presence of a ghost or spirit, come to me posthaste so I can take the appropriate action.”

Yeardly waited until the other mids had filed out of the workroom before asking, “Do you think Redemption might be haunted? Providence knows she’s seen enough betrayal and murder for one of Kirutzov’s tragedies.”

Enid remembered her first impression of Redemption as a predatory beast, husbanding and redoubling its enmity until the opportunity arose to spring forth and spend its hatred in a welter of blood and fear. Her keen arcane senses had set her nose a-wrinkle with the smell of strange magic that hung over the ship as well, and the odor had not dissipated since Nath and the few remaining crew from Alarum took possession of her. She had no doubt something was amiss with Redemption, but she kept her tone light as she answered Yeardly.

“Referencing Kirutzov now, are you? Your interest in the great dramatists may expand past Captain Nath’s at this rate. As to Redemption being haunted, oppressed by ghosts or malefic spirits, I prefer not to speculate. Instead, I’ll make some inquiries of my own.”

“It would be my pleasure to assist you with your investigation, Magister,” Yeardly said, the depth of his longing to be involved betrayed by his formal manner.

“I’m sure I would profit from your involvement,” Enid said, intending to demur, but a phantom intuition changed her mind mid-sentence. “Particularly if you were to devote yourself to a close study of the chapter on warding sigils and seals in the volume by Ceridwaith I lent you last week.”

“I will make it my priority, Magister!” Yeardly touched the brim of his hat in salute and left with a satisfied spring in his step.

Not all ghosts are murderous, Lady d’Tancreville, Dunaughy drawled in the recesses of Enid’s brain. His “voice” wavered and sounded distant.

Of course not, Enid replied mentally. But I doubt we’ll find any felicitous specters aboard, present company excepted, of course.

It seems unlikely. There is undoubtedly something here, though. I cannot put a name to it. Perhaps older relicts can conceal themselves from the more recent dead, like me, or perhaps the presence is not a ghost at all, but an entity of some other sort. The violence the mutineers visited on their officers could easily have manifested a spirit of wrath or despair.

“I agree, but it seems likely this is a riddle Redemption’s next magister must solve. Nath tells me she will surely receive a new captain before the disposition of his court-martial. Let us put this haunting aside for a more pressing question: Why do you sound so distant and weak?”

Even though my axis mundi is now the silver ring on your right hand, my connection to Alarum is still quite strong. I am struggling to break the connection completely, but it is difficult. It is almost as if the very vessel seeks to bar my entrance, but I can find no source for this subtle resistance. I fear you may find yourself alone from time to time, as my strength waxes and wanes.

The memory of Dunaughy’s words sprang up to startle her awake each time sleep made inroads until, finally, exhaustion reduced her to a fitful slumber from which she was inevitably startled to wakefulness by a recurring dream of a dark figure who contrived to spy on her from the darkest corners of Redemption’s hold. Thus, the third night out of Gisbon found her on deck as two bells of the middle watch rang. The fact that she could translate the infernal bells as an hour past midnight without consulting Dunaughy brought a wan smile to her face.

She found Merryweather and Yeardly taking hot coffee by the taffrail. Enid accepted her own cup from the cook’s mate, whose open, gap-toothed smile of hospitality melted her usual urbane distance. Enid raised the steaming mug in a casual salute to the fellow before he hobbled off on a clubfoot, which brought to mind Archbishop Archambault-Deodat, the Theocratic le diable Bordeaux. She noticed Merry’s expression was troubled and shared a brief glance with Yeardly, whose mien also betrayed more than a touch of worry.

“What is amiss?” Enid asked, and Merryweather answered in a voice so low it was barely discernible to her over the hissing song of the sea as Redemption slid swiftly through its foamy embrace.

“Suspicions that Redemption is beset by some form of a Naveroñian curse are spreading among the ship’s people. There have been half a dozen reports of a shadowy figure of a man in the hold.”

Gooseflesh prickled to life on Enid’s forearms, but she succeeded in banishing all trace of alarm from her voice when she replied, “Well, the hold is a darksome place, particularly on a vessel with such a troubled history as Redemption. Are the reports from individuals of a serious mindset who are not prone to morbid fancy?”

Her words elicited sheepish smiles from both Yeardly and Merryweather, the latter of whom said, “In truth, you describe few, if any, of our friends from before the mast. Sailors are possessed of remarkable deep wells of superstition and dread of the uncanny.”

“Unlike their scrupulously skeptical officers,” Enid remarked dryly. Merryweather and Yeardly accepted the jibe with smiles tinged with embarrassment.

“I’ll warrant you’ll find ghosts and goblins in the ship’s shadows less ridiculous when you’ve been at sea as long as we,” Merryweather chuckled. “But tell us true, Magister, have you not perceived a—how can I say it?—a weight has settled over the ship? A blanket sodden with night sweats born of sinking cheer and rising dread?”

Enid lit a cigarillo to gain time to consider her answer. It would be rude and ill-advised to openly share her thoughts with Merryweather and Yeardly until she revealed them to Captain Nath. She slowly drew and exhaled a deep lungful of smoke and said, “I have experienced something along those lines, but I assume it is the product of the dread with which I hold the court-martial awaiting Captain Nath in Middlesea. Certainly, the ship’s people began the voyage with light hearts. Why should they not, leaving the threat of being stranded in Gisbon behind and delaying the dissolution of the heroic Alarums for a last cruise together? But each day we speed closer to Albion and a future which is uncertain for us all, from the lowest powder monkey to Captain Nath himself. It is bound to produce a slowly building melancholy, think you not?”

Her fellow officers seemed dissatisfied with her rationalization but were reluctant to appear credulously superstitious. Yeardly chewed his lip for a moment and then asked, “So you do not believe the ship’s increasing dolor is eldritch in nature?”

Enid shrugged and exhaled a stream of smoke, which made three circuits around her head before darting skyward. To Yeardly and Merryweather, it was the very image of Lady Chum-Chum in miniature. “As for that, I cannot say for certain. Redemption has a tragic history and has been in enemy hands for many years. She may be laden with the evil spiritual residue left behind by bloody betrayals or dozens of minor malevolent charms which activate gradually and serially the further we sail from Neveroña. Such nefarious practices are common, according to Herbstrom’s invaluable text.”

“You cannot detect such charms?” Merryweather asked, arching a brow.

“A skilled mage will camouflage such workings behind or within beneficial dweomers, such as the one that prevents Redemption’s hull from becoming too befouled by weeds and moss. It is for this reason captured ships are stripped of all their native enchantments, which are then replaced with new, trustworthy ensorcellment.”

“That is so,” Merryweather said. “I had always assumed the practice is intended to make the maintenance of a former prize’s enchantments easier for our Navy’s magisters. Now I see there are deeper reasons as well.”