Page 11

brITT

T he Archives smelled as musty as the vegetables Henrik purchased. Stenberg vegetables tasted like sand, with little vitality and no soul. It was the jord. They needed more jord, and better jord. Kapurnick sent less and less, with less quality, too.

Britt wound up the stairs to the third floor and planted herself in front of the same shelf. With steely determination, she dove into Captain’s logs and trained her eyes to find Malcolm's name. A pattern emerged on the page. Many merchant captains kept records in the same manner in order to please His Glory and stay in the port authority’s good graces, so the columns became easy to anticipate.

When no archive patrons appeared after half an hour, Britt let both draguls prowl beneath her skirts. They instinctively stayed in the shadows, clinging to the inside of her underdress when a noise sounded, and tumbling quietly together when silence rang.

An hour later, she returned the Captain’s logs from the past three weeks.

Not a single clue.

Bundling both draguls into the handbag, she made her way down the stairs. The crick in her neck faded. She’d spent who-knew-how-long on Malcolm. Time to search for Selma. Not only out of obligation to Henrik for giving her food and a place to sleep, but she couldn't stand the panicked desperation in his eyes.

Britt peeled off the stairs and onto the second floor, welcomed by the scent of oily ink. She navigated around tall shelves and toward the far edge of the room, where the placard read Census Records.

"Quick math, Den," she murmured. "Henrik said he's thirty-something, which means he’s not exactly sure how old. Let’s assume thirty-five. Most women in Stenberg, arguably, have their first child sometime in their twenties. Let's assume she was exactly twenty when she gave birth to Henrik, with a five year differential on either side. That puts her birth census record at anywhere from fifty to sixty years ago."

Her fingers bobbled along the edges of thin leaflets. Scads of them stuffed each shelf in a vertical, horizontal, and disorganized array. No arcane to liven this place up. The libraries on the mainland had arcane-infused shelves that automatically organized and coded books based on title.

Off to the side, two Sisters of Stenberg marched up the stairs in a sedate rhythm. Unnerving, their stiff shoulders and necks. Almost too late, Britt replaced her veil.

Close call.

A male figure ascended amidst a gaggle of women. Two things immediately distinguished him as different. First, short-cropped hair brushed with silver. Second, a uniformly unnatural confidence. Britt’s heart dropped into her stomach. Her palms turned clammy. Blessed mermaids, but that bastid His Glory had arrived.

To the Archives .

She gripped the top of her pouch, hissed, "Not a sound!" and placed the draguls in her skirt pocket. It bulged, but she'd risk it.

Whispers accompanied an influx of Sisters of Stenberg, who surrounded His Glory like maniacal chicks. His Glory glided with liquid grace off of the stairs. Sisters of Stenberg ballooned with him, an artery chugging blood. Despite the infusion of life, hardly any sound accompanied the party.

The anticlimactic result of standing this close to His Glory was a dropping disappointment.

After years of building up his existence as Norr’s son, Britt expected sunbeams to shoot out of his fingertips, or soft flute music to play in his presence. At the very least, an odd sense of attachment or euphoria on his face. Stenbergians believed him to be the penultimate example of a man. The son of their sea god.

He seemed fairly normal.

Bland, like his island.

Dark, assessing eyes. A patrician face and boxy chin, with an utterly normal set of shoulders. Nothing spoke brutal strength or fearlessness, the way his political methods suggested. His hair complimented the five Captains that helped run Stenberg, cropped near the head. She’d seen no other Stenbergian with a similar hairstyle.

Not an accident.

Just as only soldats were allowed to crop their hair along the side of their heads and leave the top long, wearing it in braids or wrapped buns.

One might call His Glory handsome. Not worthy of the sun comparison that the Stenbergians claimed, but not grotesque.

Nothing like Henrik.

She escorted the thought out.

Why had His Glory come to the Archives today of all days? It meant something. A shiver of paranoia wondered if she had called him here. No, because life didn't work like that. For however much the Stenbergians thought of His Glory as the literal son of Norr, he was only a man.

Breathless, Britt slipped to the end of the bookshelf and pressed her spine to the back. No matter what happened today, His Glory could not question her. She’d never make it through without betraying something. He may not appear as terrifying as he acted, but his political prowess and brutality remained unmatched.

Heart thumping, she peered around the edge shelf, then cursed under her breath. He moved closer.

Unlikely that His Glory would recognize her as Britt, niece of General Helsing, despite the uncanny resemblance. He might see something he recognized, but little else.

Still.

She couldn’t risk it.

His beatific expression while he spoke with several Sisters of Stenberg nauseated her, not to mention their clucking approval. On deeper study, a lesser number of the Sisters of Stenberg didn't appear eager to fawn over him, adopting a general cool hauteur instead.

Didn't all Stenbergians blindly adore him? She overturned all sorts of false beliefs while here. His Glory strode toward the wall where Britt attempted to hide. The shelves held no backing, making it impossible to slide down the aisle and spirit away unnoticed. She chewed on her bottom lip and glanced from side to side. No obvious escape path lay apparent.

She'd walked herself into a corner.

Unless . . .

His Glory approached, speaking with a rise and fall of emotion and curiosity, " . . . the Archives are of utmost importance in Stenberg, sister . . ."

Throwing caution to the wind, she reached for the closest leaflet she could find, plucked it from the shelf, and threw the cover open. She pressed her right shoulder to the bookshelf, giving His Glory her back, and angled away from the approaching feet.

" . . . grateful for all the work that any willing citizen gives, even in the heart and soul of the Archives, which sometimes must be rather quiet . . ."

His Glory paused.

Britt held very still, eyes glued to the page. The leaflet could have been about the most gruesome deaths and she pretended utmost fascination. Attempts to loosen her grip so she didn’t crush the papers met with failure.

The draguls shifted. Sensing a building protest in Denerfen, she reached one hand beneath the pamphlet and pressed it to her bulging pocket.

The rippling stopped.

Her heart nearly stalled when His Glory paused behind her. The pungent, saccharine smell of imported Caledon flowers preceded him. Stenberg didn’t bother with flowers. With what soil would they grow? All was reserved for edible plant life. She breathed through her mouth.

The silence stretched to eternity.

Every muscle in Britt’s body wanted to whirl around, paste on her charming smile, and woo her way out of the situation, but that would be a fool’s errand. The deck was stacked too high against her. Her plan relied on utter incredulity.

A clearing of the throat followed. She didn't let her breath hitch or change. Seconds later, a loud and maternal, "Ahem!"

Britt turned a page.

A hard tap-tap-tap landed on her shoulder.

Britt whipped around, wide-eyed, as if startled. Her lips opened. She clutched the leaflet to her chest with an indrawn breath. His Glory blinked at her from barely a handspan away. Did the creepy man have to stand so close? She surveyed him, the Sister of Stenberg at his side, and His Glory again.

With a whimper, Britt dropped to the floor.

The Stenbergian supplicant position on her knees, hands folded to her chest, came easily enough. That much about the Stenbergian custom she had learned . . . mostly from shows in Kapurnickkian brothels that teased Stenberg culture.

"Patron," the fierce matron hissed, “you are in the presence of?—"

Britt risked a glance up, touched her ear with one hand, shook her head, then dropped her gaze again. Surprisingly, His Glory wasn’t her biggest issue right now. This new Matron Sister of Stenberg was. She studied Britt with great intent.

"Sister," His Glory said gently, and his voice had a cadence like a rippling brook. "This is a misunderstanding. Don’t you see? The dear woman offers no insult. She is deaf."

The dear woman floated in a pained way.

Too sweet.

Sickly, almost.

Britt breathed fast from where she knelt on the floor. She trained her focus on His Glory's sandals, perfectly manicured. A rope-like sash closed the ebony robes that he wore, underlain by a pristine white shirt. The ensemble cast his dark skin into greater depth.

He understood far more rapidly than she expected. The Matron's tension dissipated. To say the woman relaxed would be a lie.

"I see."

The Matron lowered her hand, waved it. Catching the movement and the purpose, Britt cautiously lifted her head. She swallowed hard and mouthed, "Sorry," while touching her earlobe again.

In Kapurnick, the deaf used motion to speak intent, but each had their own style. There was no widely accepted communication method, and she prayed the same was true here.

His Glory smiled.

"All is forgiven," he said slowly. She studied his lips, thankful to avoid his eyes, and managed a relieved smile. Her hands steepled in gratitude.

His Glory spun to face the Matron. "Do you ask the patrons why they come?" His hand swept toward Britt. “Why would a deaf woman be in the Archives?”

“Has she less right?” the Matron rebutted.

He smiled in a long suffering way. The lowering of his lips suggested hidden displeasure.

“No, of course not. I meant to imply that it might be fascinating to hear more about her life on the island. Can you imagine never hearing the blessings that my father grants? Norr provides music from the flutes, the sea, even the gulls. To be cut off from such grace . . .”

And the crack of whip, the cry of orphans, the spattered blood of sailors, Britt silently added.

The Sister of Stenberg said nothing.

His Glory’s pontification continued. “This woman was clearly found wanting in my father’s eyes, which is a pity. She, or her parents, have crossed Norr in some unforgivable sense, hence her punishment. I do wonder . . . is she cleansed enough to be present here in the Archives? Has she violated my edict?”

The matron stiffened.

Britt kept her breathing stable by sheer willpower.

No, she thought. No, no, no.

His voice carried a naive question Britt couldn’t peg. Contrived? It had to be. His Glory was known as one of the most ruthless men in the isles. He didn’t ask questions, he simply punished.

"No, Your Glory,” the Matron murmured, “we do not ask the patrons why they attend the Archives. We ask what they seek only to be of assistance. Our order does not feel the intrusion is justified.”

“During a cleansing, surely?”

“No, Your Glory.”

“Are the Sisters of Stenberg open to change?”

With greater steel, she said, “As you are aware, our laws have been established since the initiation of our order two hundred years ago. We have not, and we shall not, waver. Knowledge is for all.”

The strength in the Matron’s voice hinted at deeper intrigues. Did His Glory put pressure on the Sisters of Stenberg to change existing edicts? Is that why several of them didn’t flutter over him? The Matron’s firm tone didn’t waver.

“We feel that no changes are required regarding access to information. All may receive it, and we are not open to changing stipulations. Our bylaws are clear.”

“Captain Arvid died in a recent confrontation, Matron.” His syrupy tone gained fervor. No, that was anger. The edges shook. “A Captain of my father’s army was murdered by the Kapurnickkian sailors, and I can’t help but wonder . . . are we not cleansed enough? Would my father have brought this punishment upon us if we were clean?”

The air turned stale.

“I would never presume to understand your father’s desires, Your Glory.”

“No,” he murmured, silky as a lover’s caress. “No, you would not, Sister. You have no compunction for such a treasonous act.”

After a tight pause, His Glory said, “You have not answered my question, Sister. Do we allow the unclean to live amongst us to our detriment? Is it possible that a woman of such innocent eyes could dirty the purity that is my father’s favorite island?”

The Matron swallowed hard. Britt imagined the ground slipping away from the Matron. Crumbling stone that would drop Britt firmly in the lap of the whipping block. The Matron clearly had no trust for Britt, but also didn’t want her to suffer.

Or, perhaps, didn’t want His Glory to win .

“Are any of us pure in Norr’s eyes, Your Glory?”

The counter question remained surprisingly unruffled for the steep challenge infusing it. A dramatic pause unrolled.

“Only I,” he spoke with the softest breath. “Only I, Sister.”

“As such,” she said with a touch more reverence than before, “May we ask for your assistance around a potential security issue we have come across, Your Glory? We understand that such work might be beneath Norr’s son, but as the Archives maintain the blessing of the sea god through the upholding of our edicts . . .”

“Of course, Sister.”

The matron and His Glory seemed content to stand there, discussing the state of security in the Archives, while her ankles lost feeling and her calves prickled. Britt’s skirt rustled, accompanied by a tinny squeak of protest. Panic streaked through her in a brilliant bloom, quick as lightning. Why did draguls always have the worst timing?

No, Denerfen! she wanted to scream. Not now!

He hissed, a yawn-like sound of protest. A fold of her dress might be pushing on him, or he needed more air.

His Glory paused, head canted to the right.

"What was that sound?"

“Your Glory?”

“A squeak. Did you hear it?”

“I did not.”

“Do we have a problem with miniature pigs?”

“Not that I have seen.”

The edge of his robes swayed. He spoke so near to Britt she thought he might be breathing down her neck.

“Disturbing.”

"I heard nothing, Your Glory."

A figure appeared behind His Glory and the Matron, drawing their attention. "Forgive me, Your Glory, Matron. The room is prepared."

"Ah!" His Glory's voice expanded with excitement. He straightened. "Thank you very much. What was your name again?"

"Raquel."

Britt’s blood turned to slush. Sweet sea turtles! She tucked her chin farther into her chest and squeezed her eyes.

Don't touch me, she silently pleaded. Don't touch me.

A hand lay on her shoulder. Reluctantly, Britt lifted her head. Attempts to remove her wariness were futile, but His Glory didn’t seem to notice. If anything, the light in his eyes grew. He liked her alarm.

The bastid.

He smiled with a wooden note. This close fatigue tugged at the corner of his eyes as he stared at her. His lips hadn’t moved.

Finally, he asked, “Your name?”

She kept her focus on his lips, appeared confused, and then brightened. She held up her left hand. With her right finger, she drew E-L-L-A on her palm.

"Ella?”

She nodded.

"Good day to you, Ella." His broad hand squeezed her shoulder. She imagined slime squelching between his fingers. “My father wishes you well, and grants forgiveness for past sins that created your condition. I bless you with grace.” He closed his eyes, breathed on his palm, and set it on top of her head. “Be healed, child of the sea."

As he strode away, he said, "A deaf woman in the Archives? I've never seen it before. My father has revealed that he is pleased . . . for now. He has also revealed that, during a cleansing, he may not allow other conditions to sully his house, such as muteness, deafness, blindness, or maiming. The sins of those, you know . . . one can’t be too careful . . . Captain Ingemar and I will discuss this today. I’m sure he will agree . . .”

Sister Raquel shrank against the shelves to allow His Glory passage. She maintained the same casual diffidence as the other Sisters of Stenberg, but scrutinized Britt. Britt stood, coughing to cover the sound of Denerfen and Tesserdress’s protests. Her ankles and toes prickled as blood rushed into them again.

His Glory was out of earshot when Raquel quietly said, "You met His Glory and pretended to be deaf and changed your name."

Britt sighed, then asked, “Can you blame me?”

Raquel said, "I wish you well on your search," with the same tonal diffidence as before. She departed, joining other congregants, leaving Britt alone with the leaflet and her own fears. Once the room emptied, she rubbed a hand over her face. Denerfen wriggled, so she deftly extracted him, eyes darting around, and pushed him into her other pocket. Lumpy, but they needed a little space.

He settled, his little nose barely peeking out to sniff.

“Close call,” she muttered, and reached to replace the leaflet.

She stopped.

The title, written in mulberry ink and blocky letters so rigid she could have stacked them on top of each other and created a wall, caught her eye.

Births in Stenberg (Main)

Her breath caught. She flipped through the first couple of pages, determined the date was all wrong, and reached for the leaflet next to it. Several pamphlets later, she found one, then five, in the date range.

"The Archives are closing,” a Sister of Stenberg called through cupped hands. “The Archives are shutting down early for His Glory's purposes. Leave immediately."

Britt spun around, checked the area to ensure no one watched, and shoved the leaflets down the front of her dress. Held in place by the tension of her brassiere, she returned to the main area.

As she floated down the stairs, smiling to all the Sisters of Stenberg who did not smile back, she kept her chin high. Surely, Norr would have her put to death for the slight. Obtaining the records was as easy as sailing out of the Archives, removing her slippers, and putting on her shoes.

Not a soul stopped her.