Page 19 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)

HENRIK

The ship reminded Henrik of a heart. Swishing rhythms, up and down, steady pulses. If he sought the catharsis of the sea, he didn’t hear the profound quiet, nor see Britt’s haunted eyes. A call overhead drew him out of sleep.

“ Land-el bastids!”

Pedr.

Did he ever sleep? Doubtful.

Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, Henrik sat up. His berth, muted with light from a porthole window, revealed burgeoning daylight. Thanks to Pedr’s arcane touch a second time, Einar sprawled in a hammock, breathing steady and deep through the day and the night.

Henrik slipped out, avoiding the protesting floor, and made his way out of the narrow hall and up the ladder. Cooler air and brisk winds roused him. Pedr stood at the wheel, as always, glaring at a black storm scar that slashed the western horizon.

Pensive and moody, Pedr didn’t say a word for several minutes. Henrik waited him out. It was always best to wait Pedr out.

“We’ll be in Klipporno Bay within an hour,” Pedr said.

“An hour?”

“I didn’t stutter.”

Agnes died two days ago. They were right on schedule, catastrophe notwithstanding. Pedr said, “I have a suggestion for you when you arrive on the mainland.”

Henrik cast him a sidelong glance. Pedr had never offered unsolicited advice before, so he braced himself. “I’m listening.”

“Don’t get caught up in the lust for revenge against His Glory—who may or may not be guilty of something nefarious with that powder—while dealing with the Ladylord.

You’d be hard pressed to find another human as powerful as her.

You might be ready to kill His Glory to avenge Agnes, which I support.

But don’t be a fool, and don’t let Einar be one. If he goes,” he added.

“I plan to encourage him staying, if he wakes up before.”

Pedr shrugged. “He’s an adult. He’ll do what he wants. Keep in mind that the Ladylord will do anything to protect the mainland, and she’ll strive to make you think she’s protecting her people. Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not. She’s a hard one to read.”

“You’ve met her?” Henrik asked.

Pedr hesitated. “Not this one, but I hear things.”

“From pirates.”

He shot Henrik a scathing glare. “Amongst others.”

Exasperation hinted in Henrik’s tone when he asked, “So you already knew the Lordlady was gone before we received the letter?”

“Like I said. I hear things. The letter confirmed rumors.”

The mainland had grown from a hint to a long pulse in the minutes Henrik had been awake.

A black strip in the east gained texture, form.

It expanded slowly. Answers about Selma had never been so close.

The resurrection of his goal brought a glut of emotions that sank to the bottom of his chest like a heavy stone.

The ship slowed. Water and waves hurried instead of raced.

Henrik asked, “Can we trust the Ladylord?”

“Can you trust Arvid?”

When Henrik gave no response, Pedr chuckled without humor.

He draped a hand on the wheel. “Keep your skepticism, Henrik, and you have a chance of figuring this out. You might be the only one who can. Britt trusts people too much. She has connections and friends. It works against her. Stay skeptical, and you’ll probably stay sane. ”

Coming from a would-be pirate that lived alone on a ship, the advice reeked of projection. Sense, too. Henrik took that in, put it in the internal box where he kept the important things worthy of later reflection, and prepared himself for the mainland.

The sun hung high, warm with bemusement instead of intensity, when Pedr tossed Britt a small coin purse. It clanked as she caught it in one hand, then promptly dropped it in her brassiere. Henrik’s eyes widened with amusement.

She winked, adjusting it within the safe confines. “It’s the only place safe from pickpockets,” she said lightly.

He scowled at the thought.

The relatively calm waters of Klipporno bay surrounded them, the waters flat and downright simple compared to the rocketing waves of the open sea. For good measure, Burning Beard’s pink flames danced from the top sail. Merchant boats and ships and a few distant frigates skirted a wide berth.

A rowboat splashed into the water on the starboard side of the ship.

“Ready,” Pedr declared. His head tilted to one side, eyes squinted. “Make sure you tie the rowboat up. This arcane will make friends with other boats and follow them like a puppy if it's not tied. This boat doesn’t row itself, but it will make it a little easier.”

Good. A workout would relieve tension.

Britt clambered down the rope ladder. Einar stood at the side of the ship, arms sprawled across the railing.

He studied the teeming amalgamation of awaiting humanity with glassy-eyed indifference.

Everything about him rippled contrariness and gloom, from his rigid glare, to the supplicant fold of his body, as if he’d drop into prayer at any moment.

He gripped the railing, knuckles tightening and releasing in an undulating pattern.

Life had resumed, but not quite. Henrik gripped Einar’s shoulder.

“You sure?”

Einar nodded. “I don’t want to go in yet. Report back. Let me know if it’s worth it.”

Britt waited in the rowboat, her nimble feet far more graceful on the ropes.

Henrik intentionally shoved aside thoughts of Selma, warnings about the Ladylord, and the ramification of Agnes’s death.

With Agnes slain, an alliance with the mainland had new intrigue and motivation.

They still didn’t know what they’d encountered on that ship, but it certainly had everything to do with His Glory.

Einar’s lust for revenge had reached an unquenchable level, and Henrik couldn’t help but experience a profound new desire to help the soldat rebellion.

Henrik slotted all the questions that required answering into the back of his mind. What was that powder? Why did His Glory have it onboard frigate number thirteen? Most important of all—could the mainland answer any of his questions?

If they could, Henrik might have a friendship for them after all.

The jagged Klipporno coast resembled a fractured rock: all unpredictable lines and busyness and holes. People teemed amongst it from every pace of life. Docks, buildings, shoots of greenery, wild dogs. He couldn’t imagine a place where he might be more overwhelmed.

Without a doubt, it was the biggest chunk of land he’d stepped on. Britt withdrew her oar as the rowboat came alongside the far, inner edge of the dock, skirting around larger rowboats at the end. Another minute of momentum and the sea wash would glide them the rest of the way.

“We’ll head up to the Ladylord’s house.” She jabbed a finger into the sky. “We go up, up. All the way up. She lives in the catacombs at the top.”

Henrik elevated his eyes.

Up, indeed.

This coast was a mixture of sea, surf, and hard rock.

Cliffs, set back from the ocean, rose to a daunting height.

The sun crested the top, leaving the lower cliffs in a wet shadow.

Within the rocks themselves, life teemed.

Buildings piled in clusters along the bottom and edges, accessed by roads zigzagging in switchbacks up the cliffside.

People with wagons avoided several steep pitches via longer routes.

Occasionally, an animal pulling a cart interrupted the flow, but people veered around them, too.

“She lives in the cliffs?” he heard himself ask.

“Lubbers live everywhere in Klipporno.”

“Lubbers?”

“It’s a name for mainland people. They call us islanders, we call them lubbers. Fair’s fair.”

Based on the way she said it, lubbers was not a kind term. Britt plucked the coin purse out of her brassiere, extracted two shiny coins, and shoved them in a smaller skirt pocket.

“Follow my lead, Henrik,” she said brightly. “You have Malcolm’s letter?”

He touched a pocket inside his leather vest. To avoid drawing attention, he’d left his favorite gauntlets behind.

“Yes.”

“We might have time to find the scribe after speaking with the Ladylord, depending on how long it takes. Most Ladylords or Lordladys don’t have time for extensive meetings with island agents, but politicians constantly surprise me. His Glory notwithstanding.”

Water slapped the rowboat, wetting the bottom of Britt’s skirt when she climbed out, looped the rope around the tie down, and reached for the ladder. She stowed her paddle as a stern-looking dockmaster glowered at them.

Henrik followed her out of the rowboat. A burly woman approached Britt, hand outstretched. With her usual brilliant smile, Britt popped the two coins into the awaiting hand. They glimmered a faint orange and yellow.

“For the day,” Britt chirped. Her fixed smile was in place again, so easy to spot now that she told him the truth.

No one else would recognize her fake smile as such.

Not if they hadn’t studied her as deeply as Henrik.

Her sincere smiles were far more tame, filled with raw power.

They didn’t take up her whole expression in a fixed, forced brightness.

He thought of it as her game. The bubbly strategy she employed to get what she wanted. Not nefarious, but calculated. The real Britt was far more steady, and seeking.

A fine eyebrow, set against a suspicious face, arose on the dockmaster’s face. The woman exclaimed, “Two coins? Are you mad? It’s a half pence for the day in mainland monies.”

Britt leaned closer. “I know you’ll take good care of my rowboat.” She tipped her head out to the sea. “Compliments of Burning Beard.”

A half gasp lingered at the back of the woman’s throat as she peered beyond Britt, comprehending the distant blaze of pink jutting above his sails.

The woman tucked the coins into her pocket and cast a surreptitious glance at the dockmaster as she checked something on a paper, strapped to a wooden board, in the crook of her arm.

“Right. We’ll keep a good eye on it.”

“Ta!”

Britt strode away with her usual confident certainty. Henrik followed, a fool at her heels.