Spectyr

THREE The Bonds of Duty

The instant a drunk sailor grabbed the quartermaster’s behind and then pulled her into his lap, Raed knew there would be trouble. Laython was a kindly sort of woman, but she only liked to be manhandled by those she knew.

Her scarred hand grabbed up the nearest object, in this case a full mug of ale, and smashed it against the offending sailor’s head. The crew of the Dominion leapt from their chairs and rushed to the aid of their companion.

Raed, who had long been without a decent brawl, joined them. He might be the Young Pretender to the throne, with a royal lineage going back to before the Break, but he was not the sort to put himself above his crew.

The wharf-side bar was packed with more than three ships’ complements, and since night had fallen they’d all been waiting for a moment to get some trouble started. Before he knew it, Raed was in among the swinging, swearing mass of sailors, giving just as much he got. He was splashed with a goodly amount of ale but found he was grinning.

Looking almost haughty, his very tall first mate pulled a red-faced man off Raed. It had crossed the Young Pretender’s mind more than once that Aachon should have been born the Prince—not he.

“Is this not, perhaps, an inappropriate pastime for you, my—” The first mate paused and managed to stop himself before his said “Prince.” “My captain?”

Raed took the offered hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. “We’re in a rough, isolated little port town—what else is there to do?”

He caught a glimpse of Aachon’s dark eyebrows drawing together into a dire expression but then found himself whirled away by another opponent. Raed grappled with him, getting in a few good punches, before the larger man tossed him through the pub’s window.

Luckily, this particular establishment was not exclusive enough to afford glass, and Raed sailed through where it would have been, only catching his shoulder against the shutters. He landed on the ground, had the breath knocked out of him, and lay there for a second. Slightly dazed, he contemplated when he’d last felt this unfettered.

Before he had met the Deacons Sorcha Faris and Merrick Chambers, he had spent very little time on dry land. The Beast inside him was triggered by the nearness of other geists, and so he had spent his life on the open sea. Until that safety too was denied him. So, indeed, it had been a very long time.

When Aachon flew through the window and nearly landed atop him, Raed couldn’t help bursting into real laughter. It must have taken at least three men to sling the first mate in such a way. As Raed pushed him off his chest, he was reminded of his friend’s considerable weight.

He was just about to commiserate with Aachon, when he realized that a pair of fine boots were standing only a few inches from their heads. Cautiously he rolled onto his side and looked up at their owner.

And there she was. Captain Tangyre Greene looked down at him with an odd sort of smile tugging the corner of her lips. She was older than the last time they had talked, though her hair had always been gray, and the long scar on the right side er face earned in the service of the Unsung was as deep as ever.

“Tang!” Raed bounded to his feet. “You remember my first mate, Aachon?”

The brawl inside was reaching some kind of crescendo, and another body was tossed through the window. Laython landed nearby, cursing through her split lip.

“Oh, and my quartermaster.”

“Still the same old Raed.” Tangyre dusted off Raed’s shoulders. “But I am surprised with you, Aachon—how can you let your captain get into such antics?”

“Even I cannot perform miracles, Captain Greene.” The first mate rolled to his feet. Behind them the noise in the pub had died down, and all that could be heard were the cheers of the Dominion crew. Now they would be spending their hardearned coin on buying drinks for their opponents. Laython shot a glance between her captain and this newcomer and then strode back into the pub. A fresh chorus from the sailors revealed they fully expected her to buy them all a round.

Raed and Aachon did not join them. Instead, the Young Pretender clapped Tangyre in a tight embrace. She had been one of the few officers in the Unsung’s forces who had treated a young Prince like a friend rather than a royal. “Wonderful to see you again, Tang. What brings you from the Isles?”

She pulled back, and the hint of a smile on her lips faded. Suddenly Raed knew that her arrival was more than coincidence. “My Prince”—she seldom called him that, and his stomach lurched appropriately—“if only I could come on the wings of better news.” From her belt she produced a folded missive and held it out to him like it was poisoned.

Raed took the piece of vellum with his father’s seal on it from her extended fingers. That piece of wax said the Unsung was still alive—so there could be only one other person who could bring Tangyre so far.

His hands were sweating as he snapped the seal and read what was written there. Even in panic and loss, his father wrote long and florid passages. His son found himself scanning down the letter to get to the real story as quickly as possible.

The raiders came in the middle of a storm—they took Fraine. You have brought attention to our family after so many years of peace. This is all your fault.

“I am sorry, Raed.” Tangyre touched his shoulder and squeezed.

A wave of numbness passed through him as he recalled his sister’s curls and deep blue eyes. She was fifteen years younger than he—a product of their parents’ reunion after years of separation. He remembered carrying her on his shoulders when he’d been home between sea battles.

All this was naturally before the Rossin’s Curse came to fruition and their mother was killed under its claws. Fraine had been so sweet, yet with a streak of genuine stubbornness that was required of anyone bearing the name of Rossin.

His sister’s existence was the one reason Raed had not taken his own life in the terrible dark times after their mother had been slain by the geistlord inside him. Like he, his sister had been born outside of Vermillion, and therefore if he were to die, the Curse that plagued their family would fall on her next.

Now Raed feared that his father was right. He had opened the door when he’d gone into Vermillion. Their enemies had almost forgotten that the Rossin line still existed. Even the Emperor.

Tangyre’s hand tightened on his shoulder. She smelled of sea salt and leather armor.

“How hard did the old bastard try to get her back?” Raed was fully aware his voice cracked with anger and guilt.

Tangyre stiffened. “It wasn’t his fault; there was a storm and—”

“He should have sailed through it!” he snapped, yanking his shoulder back out of her grip. “He should have chased them to the Otherside if necessary!”

“Your father is far too sick to take to ship,” Tangyre replied, “but he sent all those at his disposal to get your sister back. We lost four in the storm, and the scum still outdistanced us. Once they reached Imperial waters they went up the Saal River—and that was as far as we could go without frigates.” She looked him in the eye defiantly. “Having our ships blown out of the water by the Imperial fleet would not get Fraine back.”

For an instant Raed wanted to scream that she’d been a coward, that they should have followed his sister down to the last man—but then logic washed over him. He nodded stiffly. “So how did you find me?”

The corner of Tang’s lips twisted in an ironic smile. “I still have plenty of contacts on the mainland. I took a guess that reports of a Pretender to the throne along the coast of Gallion pertained to you.”

Though she was a friend, Raed did not like the idea of anyone being able to track him so easily. To mask it he replied swiftly, “So you brought Gullwing? ”

Captain Greene turned and pointed toward the ships moored at the jetty, bobbing under the light of a full moon. Dominion was as identifiable as his own hand, but also now he could make out another familiar shape tied next to it.

He had many fond memories of running the deck of this sloop as a child. She might be one of the older ships left to them, but she was also light, fast, and often carried the word of the Unsung from the Coronet Isles. In the last few decades, though, there had been precious use for that to be transmitted anywhere.

“She is my ship now,” Tangyre replied, “and one of only three others to survive the storm.”

The two captains, trailed by the still-wary Aachon, walked back toward the jetty. Tangyre ran her eye over the Dominion. “However, you look in good order.”

“Not good enough to take on the whole Empire”—Raed stroked his short beard—“so you best tell me what you know.”

“Our informants tell us only that the ship sailed up the Saal—but from there, the trail runs cold.” Tangyre tucked her thumbs into her belt. “Your father asks you to follow.”

Had the Unsung really thought he wouldn’t? Raed managed not to take his anger out on Tangyre; she was but the messenger. “You may tell him I will find her.”

“My Prince,” Aachon finally rumbled, “unlike his father, is not afraid to go against the edicts of the Assembly of Princes and the Usurper.”

Raed was shocked and surprised. He had never heard a bad word from Aachon’s mouth about the Unsung, let alone the suggestion that his choice to remain safely in exile was some kind of cowardice. It was not an uncommon view.

Captain Greene tilted her head but chose to completely ignore Aachon’s comment. “My ship shall return to the Coronet Isles, my Prince. I will remain and help you.”

Looking into those flinty gray eyes, Raed knew there would be no argument. Tangyre would cling to the outside of the Dominion even if he gave her a direct order; she had taken the kidnapping of Fraine as a personal affront.

“Very well, then,” Raed said, tucking his father’s missive into his pocket. “Luckily Aachon and I have discussed this before. We have a way to both get us back into the Empire and strike at an abomination.”

Tangyre’s eyebrows shot up. “That sounds most impressive.”

“My Prince always is.” Aachon folded his arms so they bulged. He could not have looked more imposing even if he’d been made of stone.

Raed rolled his eyes. “Forgive my first mate, Tang. He hates slavers almost as much as I do.”

“Perfectly understandable”—Captain Greene pressed her lips together—“a pet peeve of mine as well. I already suspect that this is going to be a most satisfactory outing.”