“You know, sir, I’d have everyone play least in sight until this blows over.”
“Too right,” Groskin muttered behind us. We spun around and stared at him, and he shrugged at us. “Did you think I was going to stay up there? I figured the lieutenant here knew where the good hiding places were.” He looked at Falkin. “Let me give you some advice: Never, ever encourage dissension.” My stare turned incredulous and he shrugged again, then grunted, his mouth twisting. “Let me be a lesson to you.” He turned to me. “Not to hurry you, Rabbit, but you might want to start getting dressed. You sometimes take a bloody long time and I don’t want the captain coming down on me because you’re not ready to go.”
“Go where?” I asked.
Groskin stared at me, then turned to First Lieutenant Falkin. “You didn’t tell him?” Groskin shook his head, not waiting for Falkin’s response. “Not a good idea for orders to go astray, Lieutenant. Definitely not a good idea.”
“Tell me what?” My voice rose.
Groskin folded his arms and nodded at Falkin. “You were given the order, you tell him.”
Color bloomed along the first lieutenant’s cheekbones. “You’re accompanying the captain when he goes over to the vice admiral’s ship.”
“Blasted poxy hell!” I pushed past Falkin and ran for the ladder to down below.
I’d just finished putting on my Habbs in the army lieutenant’s berth, which (irony of ironies) I shared with Lieutenant Groskin, when the shout came that we had reached the vice admiral’s fleet. After shoving clean handkerchiefs in my pocket and making sure my braid and uniform hung straight, I climbed up the ladder. In short order I found myself being rowed to my uncle’s ship, the Pearl Fisher, along with Captain Suiden, Laurel Faena, Chancellor Berle, and, of course, Trooper Basel. I looked back at the Dauntless and saw the thin figure of Obruesk watching us. Even from that distance I could feel his rage at not being included, which he would’ve been if he had been acting as the arch-doyen. I wondered if allowing the patriarch to foist him on us was wise.
“Keep it down, Lieutenant,” Suiden said.
I turned around in my seat. “Yes, sir.” Facing forward, my gaze collided with the frown on Chancellor Berle’s face.
The captains from the Valiant, the Adamantine and the fleet captains also converged on the Pearl Fisher, and we were hoisted up to the main deck by the bosun’s chair one by one, to be greeted by drummers, pipes, and an honor guard. But instead of waiting for us with pomp and dignity at the end of the facing rows of marines presenting arms, Vice Admiral Havram ibn Chause stood at the gangway, greeting each of us as we came on board. When I came on last (very junior in both age and rank), my uncle grabbed my hand and shook it, preventing my salute, and clapped his other hand to my shoulder to prevent my bow.
“I don’t need an introduction to know who you are!” His eyes twinkled at me. “Nay, lad, no need for the observances.” He clapped my shoulder once more and allowed his hand to drop. “I tell you what, salute twice when you leave the ship, eh?” I found myself grinning back. He was as tall as I was, and whereas everyone else in the family had brown eyes, his were blue as the sky. He had the same lean build, had more gray in his dark brown hair than his eldest brother, and his skin was weathered by the exposure to sun and sea. His face, though, fell readily into laughter—or at least a smile. He was smiling now as he looked at me, lines fanning out from his eyes.
“Thirty years since I’ve seen your papa. Are he and your mama well?”
“Yes, sir. At least, last I saw them five years ago they were.”
He shook his head, his smile dimming. “I told Maceal not to let them be forced to leave, but he had just come into the title and was still trying to find his way. That idiot Flavan and his son, Nersil, God rest his soul—”
I was distracted from the thought that my parents had been forced out of Iversterre by the unfamiliar name.
“Nersil was your mother’s brother,” Havram said, seeing my confusion. “Teram’s papa. Have you met your cousin Teram?”
I nodded and left it at that.
“A bigger clutch of nodcocks I’ve never seen, for all their degrees to the throne,” Havram said. “I don’t know how your mama turned out so well—” He broke off, recollecting that we were surrounded by interested listeners, even over the pipes and drums. “Well, that’s for another time.” He smiled again, and started herding everyone towards the Pearl Fisher’s great cabin. “We must dine together before our journey’s end so that you can listen to me reminisce.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
“And tell you how much you look like your grandpapa.”
“So I’ve heard, sir.”
A marine standing by the cabin door flung it open and the vice admiral entered first, followed by the rest of the party. I came in last so I was able to hear the marine’s gasp over the still playing pipes and drums as Basel’s shade crossed the threshold.
Vice Admiral Havram turned around. “Oh, aye. The ghost.” He shot Captain Suiden a look out of suddenly un-twinkling eyes as the other captains decided that they wanted to be on the other side of the cabin. “There was a lot of signaling going on earlier regarding it.”
“Yes, sir,” Suiden said.
“Who was he?”
“Trooper Basel, sir. He was murdered by Lieutenant Slevoic ibn Dru.”
Uncle Havram ignored the shocker of Basel’s murder and went to the heart of the matter. “Why is he following my nephew about, then, instead of Slevoic?”
“As near as I can tell, it’s something to do with what the Borderlands call the ‘moon season,’ when those murdered attach themselves to those who can avenge them. Trooper Basel seems to have chosen Lieutenant Rabbit.” Suiden gestured at Laurel. “The ambassador can explain it better than I, sir.”
“Hmmph.” The vice admiral ignored the Faena also. “I know that the church has very strong views on phantoms. What does the patriarch say about this?”
“He was present at Trooper Basel’s funeral, sir,” Suiden replied.
“So?”
“Trooper Basel was also present at his funeral.”
There was silence as Havram digested that. “I see.” The vice admiral became aware of the large carry pouch I held. “Just put the dispatches on the table, lad, and”—he looked around—”everyone have a seat.” He pulled out a chair at the head of the table.
“Sir, you have one from the Lord Admiral, the Lord Commander, and from King Jusson,” Suiden said as I put the pouch down on the table and sat next to him.
“Pass it here, please.” Havram placed the pouch down in front of him, then looked at Suiden. “Now, Your Highness, you will tell me how a Turalian prince became captain of one of His Majesty’s windriders, and why this same prince is bringing me orders to leave a patrol of Iversterre waters that the Turalians have decided to claim for their own.” More than the news of Trooper Basel was signaled. I then caught Suiden’s eye, and concentrated on the sounds of a ship at anchored rest in the sea.
Chapter Forty-nine
Uncle Havram took the news of Teram’s failed attempt to seize the throne and subsequent death sentence with equanimity, only muttering “Nodcock” a couple of times during the narrative. He was much less sanguine about Lord Gherat. “You mean to tell me that Dru was smuggling Border goods to fund this rebellion?”
“Yes, sir,” Suiden said. “The network involved the heads of Great Houses, tradespeople, dock workers, the Royal Army, and river customs. But Lord Gherat was the master planner.”
“Where was the stuff going?” a captain of one of the fleet ships asked.
“Some to the markets of the Royal City,” Suiden replied. “But much was smuggled to the Turalians.”