Page 129 of The Iron Dagger
She wasn’t a picky eater, chomping at bits of fried squid, cucumber, and roast pheasant. But her favorite was corn cakes.
“Don’t know why you’d waste good food on a beast,” grumbled the ship’s quartermaster one evening. “You’ll never be rid of it, and it will forget how to hunt.”
“I doubt table scraps will override its instincts,” said Bryan, but he felt a twinge of guilt. And so he stopped giving her treats for a while, but she still followed the ship.
Her round, gray eyes were imploring, and he would say, “I’m sorry, old girl. Can’t have you growing dependent.”
The seal gave a short chuff and slipped under the water.
This evening Bryan had brought a corn cake, reasoning that if he fed her randomly, she would not forget how to feed herself. Bryan had met many strange and interesting people on this tour, but this was the first animal that he’d befriended.
He leaned his elbows on the wooden rail, willing the horizon to remain smooth and land-less. They’d spent a month at sea, stopping only once to refill their supplies. Another month before his year-long tour would come to a close, and then he would make the journey back to court.
His stomach clenched at the thought, as it always did when he thought of home. He had hoped that a year away from the palace would bring him purpose and a sense of duty; the sense of duty that had eluded him for all his life. Bryan gritted his teeth, the old guilt making him clench his jaw. If anything, his time away had shown him that he would rather be anywhere else. He was the king, but only in name.
He glanced over his shoulder at a group of sailors nearby, laughing uproariously over a game of cards. Another sailor walked briskly past with a sheaf of parchment and a quill, taking inventory of the mead and fresh water.
How he envied them, forever taking journeys and risking life and limb. Seeing new lands, with no great destiny resting on their shoulders.
Bryan closed his eyes and bowed his head. This had been the best year of his life, and he felt that it was ending all too soon. He should be savoring what remained of his freedom, but any new adventures were sure to be tainted by his melancholy.
The air was heavy and humid, and the hairs stood up on his arm. Without warning, it felt as though he’d missed a step going down, though he stood still on the deck, clutching the rail. The pressure had dropped, and Bryan shook his head, trying to dispel the vertigo. Thick, fast moving clouds churned overhead while a roll of thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Nasty one coming upon us,” said Hibbert, coming to stand at his side. He lit his pipe, the tobacco glowing bright.
“Shall we take down the sails?” asked Bryan.
“Better now than in the rain,” said Hibbert, scratching his rough gray beard.
Bryan went to the mast where his men had gathered, and he took up the ropes. In little time they had the sails down, and some men began stringing up the storm sails.
Bryan was just tying down the last bit of rigging when a voice shouted from the crow’s nest.
“Vessel on the horizon!”
Bryan strained his eyes, looking towards where the sailor pointed. The storm clouds made it difficult to judge distance, but a dark speck was just visible where sea met sky.
“Friendly?” he asked Miles, who straightened from securing the ropes. Merchant ships passed through the Southern Sea, but where there were merchant ships, there were pirates.
“Can’t tell,” said Miles. “Looks like it’s missing sails.”
The ship was nearer now, and it was, as Miles said, free of sails. The ship was made of metal, and clouds of smoke streamed from two great smokestacks. It was the largest moving object Bryan had ever seen, at least double the length of their schooner. Bryan had heard of steamships, but he’d never seen one in person. No pirate would use such a vessel. It would require a full crew simply to fuel it.
Why was it coming directly towards them? Did they require aid?
Rain began to spit from the sky, and the wind picked up. The mast creaked, but the storm sails seemed to be countering the weight as the ship listed slightly to the side.
The steamship was now less than a league away, and gaining on them fast. They flew no flag, but there was no mistaking its origin. Only Montag produced these ships, and Bryan knew that Lenwen did not have any in their navy.
“Could it be from Norwen?” he asked Hibbert quietly, not wishing to spook the men.
“Couldn’t be. They don’t have any steamships,” said Hibbert. “Besides, it’s a ceasefire. They wouldn’t dare stage an attack.”
Bryan nodded, his heartbeat slowing. It was only the ripping wind and the white caps forming on top of the waves that made him so nervous.
“You secure the cargo, I’ll get some pickles,” Bryan said. “Want to get ahead of the sea-sickness this time, eh, Hibbert?”
“Go on,” grumbled the old man, embarrassed that he was the only one of the crew that had a tender stomach.
