Page 8

HENRIK

A fter Britt fed her dragul and herself, and delicately placed extra food in her pocket to eat later , she emerged from the cottage wearing an ivory linen dress. An empty linen bag hung at her side. The fabric shifted in a breeze that lifted her hair off her neck, revealing the hidden dragul under her wavy locks. The ends had a slight curl. He hated that he noticed. The slope of her nose, and the hint of a shy smile, almost enticed him to return the smile.

Almost.

In a word, she was charming, even in boring regalia. Kapurnickkians were known for bold dress and elaborate colors, with men and women wearing pants under skirts and long tunics or dresses, depending on the weather. Stenberg residents were far less extravagant than other islanders, which likely contributed to his less-than-exciting return to Stenberg.

Henrik extended a veil. A bone comb at the end would secure it into her hair, and allow her to cover her face. With a silent question in her eyes, she accepted. From his other hand, he extended a pair of ivory slippers.

"You have to wear the veil in the Archives during a cleansing, just in case His Glory shows up.”

“Does he show up often?”

“Enough that the Sisters of Stenberg prepare for it. You don’t want to be there without one if he does.”

Her insatiable curiosity reared its head. “Oh?” she intoned with deepening interest and that prolific curiosity. “What horrible and grotesque things might happen?”

“Tossed to the whipping post, probably.”

Lightly, she quipped, “Stenberg islanders love pain?”

“Just the soldats.”

Her smile turned into a question. “Why is that?”

He shrugged. No one had ever asked before.

She plucked the comb from his hands to study it.

“Don't wear it now," he added, a hand upheld. "Wait until you’re at the door. When we arrive at the Archives, remove your shoes and put on the slippers. There will be cubbies outside for your shoes.”

“Why all the fuss?”

“The Sisters of Stenberg sanitize every surface during a cleansing, including the floors.”

“It’s a literal and metaphorical cleansing.”

“Sure.”

She studied the shoes, gaze tapered. Her hands wriggled back and forth when she held up the slippers.

“Hence these?”

“Again, you don’t want to be the one bringing in sand?—”

“Or not wearing a veil,” she finished. “Got it. His Glory requires this?”

Henrik nodded.

If the obsessiveness of the clothing made her want to run away screaming, she gave no indication. Without any further questions, she accepted the slippers, too. Her willingness to blindly accept a move forward seemed foolhardy. If he didn’t understand each nuance of a task he was assigned, he usually resisted.

“I'll walk you to the Archives today,” he said, “but you'll be free to go on your own after."

Britt nodded, appearing relieved. He didn't relish the idea of strolling around Stenberg with her. Soldats drew attention wherever they went outside the Quarters. If he spent too much time with any female, tongues would wag. He might have to answer for her presence in the Archives and his life.

If all went according to plan, she'd find Selma, complete her task, and they'd part ways forever before questions surfaced and tongues wagged.

"What about Denerfen?" she asked.

"I'm sorry?"

A hint of color graced the top of her cheeks. "My dragul, Denerfen.” With a bit more sauce she added, “Forgive me for not introducing you properly earlier. His name is Denerfen.”

He hid a smile. “Can Denerfen understand me?”

“Yes . . . and no. He understands me because I use the same phrases, but he won’t comprehend conversation.”

“Like miniature pigs, you mean? You can train them to respond to commands. Come. Sit. Fetch.”

Fire ignited in her eyes.

He wrestled back a wicked smile to ask, “What do you normally do with him, anyway?”

“I take him everywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

“Mmm, but it’s not a big deal in Kapurnick. Our islanders expect it, and dragul keepers are well-known. Stenberg is an altogether different world. I’m not leaving Denerfen with you.”

Henrik held up two hands. “Fine. Take him.”

“Can I wear my cloak?” she asked, brightening. “He always hides in the hood. Makes everything easier.”

“What do you do when it's hot?"

"Wear him on my shoulder."

"Everywhere?"

"It doesn't matter on my island!"

He fought his rising exasperation. Conversations with her derailed like lightning. “No, you can't wear a cloak or take him into the Archives with you. At least, not visibly. It would draw attention and not be safe.”

Challenge tightened her voice. "I won't go without him."

He pointed to the linen wrist bag in her hands. "I figured. That small pouch is big enough to carry him in it, and let it hang from your wrist. Women use them here. It won’t be out of place."

Still wary, she studied the drawstring pouch with a series of questions in her eyes, then surprise. Finally, she said, "Thank you. That was . . . rather thoughtful. Give me just a minute to get him settled, and then I'll come back out and be ready to go."

Something in her specificity, and the subtle command for him to stay out here, piqued his interest. Would it really require privacy for her to put her dragul in a pouch? Deciding it wasn't worth the fight, and there was nothing wayward for her in his cottage, he brooked no argument.

Less than five minutes later, she returned. The pouch hung from her right wrist. Denerfen occupied more room than he thought. She grasped the veil and slippers in the other hand. A wide smile crossed her lips.

"I'm ready to go!"

* * *

Henrik kept her by his side as they strode through the soldat’s village and the Quarter, not sure what to expect. He'd never walked alone with a woman that he could recall. Not without an order to compel it. The realization hung like a heavy, and lonely, weight.

Britt massaged her bottom lip with her teeth, attention darting from stall to stall. Distant thoughts clouded her deep perusal. He wanted to inquire what frightened her most about Stenberg, but sometimes stating a fear made it bigger. She had enough to think about, although she didn’t seem all that nervous.

"These Archives are run by the Sisters of Stenberg, you said?” she inquired in a clear voice.

He stepped around a puddle coated with sand.

“Yes.”

She paused.

He realized, too late, she expected him to elaborate.

“And,” she drawled, spinning her hand in a circle. “Who are they?”

“Women.”

She snorted. “Well spotted.”

“Women who don’t legalize a relationship with any partner. They want to serve Stenberg and earn food and lodging in the meantime. Most of them would be in the Shadowlands if they didn’t, or were raised as scholars.”

“His Glory doesn’t allow women to sail?”

He scoffed. “No.”

She scowled.

Though he couldn’t fathom why he cared what she thought, he said, “Stenbergians, particularly His Glory, see women as improvers. Men are brutes, for the most part. Women, though, have artistic strength and creativity our minds don’t comprehend. His Glory tries to highlight them.”

Her voice remained strangely still as she said, “Improvers?”

Frustration built with surprising speed. Soldats were trained for patience, so why did her every response irritate him? He struggled to know what to say. Did the shock in her voice reflect outrage, or true curiosity? He refused to look at her and find out. She made it too difficult to look away again. A woman of her beauty had no business in?—

The thought stalled his feet.

Oh, no.

He paused in the middle of the cobblestone road, arrested by a sinking feeling. If he noticed her beauty, other Stenbergians would also.

Sailors, too.

He didn’t like that.

A few paces ahead, Britt stopped and called over her shoulder, "Something wrong?"

Henrik managed to shake his head. "No,” he bit out.

Mechanically, he forced himself to take one step, then another. Each one bore him closer to her and the disaster he brought upon himself. Britt wasn’t stunning by the isles standards of exotic and wild features—smoky eyes, coy smile, wide hips, thick arms. Britt didn’t command obedience because of her appearance either, but she had a far more powerful ease that imparted elegance.

He didn’t like thinking about her beauty, which flowed deeper than prettiness, nor about the ragged edge of women’s roles in Stenberg. But if he had noticed, others might as well. He’d have to keep her safe. Somehow.

Britt eyed him.

“Are you sure that nothing is wrong?" she drawled.

There.

Irritated again .

"It's just . . . I didn't think about the ramifications of working together.”

“Like what?”

“How to keep you safe from Stenberg sailors, for one,” he muttered, running a hand over his head. “Or what it would mean for you to be seen with me. You’re a beautiful woman, I’m a soldat, and we’re together in public."

A fanciful eyebrow danced higher. Why did she have to look so delighted with everything? “Not to mention that I’m sleeping in your cottage,” she sang, poorly suppressing a chuckle.

"There are . . . implications.”

With a flutter of eyelashes, she said, "Don't tell me that soldats don't take lovers, Henrik." Her voice lowered to a sultry whisper. “You’ll never convince me of that. ”

He scowled.

She laughed.

Like a butterfly, she wandered up the cobblestone road without him. Did she know where she was going? As she headed toward the wrong juncture in the road, he grabbed her above the elbow and tugged.

"This way."

Unbothered, she followed. He released his hand, hating the soft caress of her skin, too. He was too happy to let go.

Britt hummed under her breath as they strolled up the street. Eyes peered on them from everywhere. On this mainland isle, people were accustomed to spotting soldats, particularly with the Quarters so near. But a soldat walking with a woman drew gossipers from the shadows like rats to discarded food. Their glittering malevolence and wicked tongues seemed to lie in wait.

"Is it unusual for a soldat to be seen with a woman?" she asked.

“No.”

“Just you?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm . . . care to share why?”

Coldly, he said, “No.”

"You might have a tendency to willingly head toward militaristic and uncomprehending deprivation," she said, "like basic shelter, warmth, and ease, but you'll never convince me that all soldats agree to live without the benefits of a lover. Don't soldats highly value their progeny?"

He ground his teeth together.

"Yes."

"Hmm . . ."

He let her drift on that unstated question, because he didn't know where to take the conversation next. Norr’s breath, how far away were the Archives, anyway? When the double doors popped into view, he released a gentle exhale.

Finally.

He nodded ahead to indicate his change in subject. "The Archives. Don't underestimate anything. The Sisters of Stenberg are rumored to be the eyes and the ears of His Glory, and they pay attention."

Bemused, she asked, "To what end?"

"Searching for Selma as my mother will draw atten?—”

"Oh, no," she cried a little too loudly, "I will search for my sister without you, silly soldat. Thank you for the offer."

She pushed against his arm with a coy smile, winked, and only a moment passed before he realized her game. She leaned closer, as if she planned to whisper, though her voice remained level.

“It's a cleansing. We must respect His Glory's dictates. You cannot go inside. Thank you for your protection, but it's not required here."

Did the churning in his gut have more to do with her adept pivot and on-the-spot thinking, or her ability to understand things so quickly he almost couldn't keep up? The twinkle in her eye hid a laugh.

He loathed that, too.

Britt stopped walking almost exactly fifty paces away from the building, which was the precise distance that custom required him to stop. Did she know more about Stenberg than he assumed? She must.

Which would be fair, because he knew about the draguls. But her knowledge of Stenberg went on the list of things he didn’t like about Britt being here. The sudden tension in her shoulders clued him in. He followed her gaze to the left. She stared at the blood spattered whipping post.

“Cleansing,” he said.

She spoke so softly he almost didn’t hear. “Which includes whipping?”

“Only islanders that don’t abide by His Glory’s dictates. Thiefs.” He hesitated, the words crippled, maimed, unable to work, on the tip of his tongue. Perhaps the man whipped yesterday hadn’t been a criminal, but simply helpless. His Glory didn’t look kindly on them, either.

“In public?” she asked.

“Where else?”

Her pressed lips uttered no response.

"You'll be fine," he said, affecting a casual stance. "I'll return in two hours?—“

She waved a hand. "Don't worry about it."

"Britt—"

"I might require more than two hours."

"Don't."

"What if I don’t find my sister?"

Sister.

Right.

"You can return tomorrow."

With a bite in her voice that made it clear she didn’t appreciate orders, she asked, “What's the caution?"

Reality, he wanted to snap. Sailors patrolled the island and supposedly kept the market safe, but he’d trust them as much as he’d trust a toddler. He tucked those thoughts into the box with other unstated things, begging for release.

Did all Kapurnickkians breeze their way through other islands? It made no sense. She hadn't worked out a tactical plan, asked no queries about the layout of the room, the number of workers, the main objective. He hadn't even told her the hours to the Archives?—

“The caution is?—”

“—that you don’t know if other lover-deprived Stenbergians could control themselves around me, a young and available female?"

His lips sealed, thoroughly livid now. Did she have no idea what an island full of sailors and other desperate islanders might do to a bright beam of sunshine like her? She must be jesting. She lived on an island. Kapurnick had sailors, too. This had to be part of her act.

"Two hours," he repeated.

Her gaze skipped over the whipping post as she capitulated with a shrug.

“Maybe. Ta!”

As she spun on her heels and headed for the main doors, she released a breezy wave. Half a minute later, she’d removed her shoes, shelved them, put on her slippers, and the doors closed behind her .

* * *

Once Britt entered the Archives and he mentally set her aside, it didn’t take long to return to his cottage, sit at the table, and identify the problem in his jord paperwork.

The shipment amount that he reported wasn’t the same as what the port authority captured. Henrik was missing twenty bags of jord that came into the port authority’s hands. With already low numbers shipped, he couldn’t afford a mistake.

He stared at the disparate columns with a steep frown. They weren’t off by much, but enough. Set against the backdrop of six hundred and seventy-nine total bags of jord during his reefer year, to be accurate, the lost twenty didn’t seem like much.

And yet . . .

Captain Ossian was the obvious first suspect. Had the ship captain stolen twenty bags of jord and whisked away to the islands with all haste? The option was a possibility, but didn’t fit what he knew of Ossian. The captain might be a salty crustacean, but he wasn’t dishonorable. Men like Ossian clutched honor like gold.

Had Henrik’s other shipments reported less?

He hadn’t compared notes this deeply on the other two jord shipments. Perhaps he should have. A niggling suspicion occupied the back of his mind. Twenty bags of jord here and there would add up to an enormous sum over the course of his year on the isles. The precious resource was hoarded to the quarter-bag by farmers.

“Captain Ossian,” he said under his breath. “You are a thief, or you have one on board.”

Henrik swept the paperwork up and stacked it out of sight, where water wouldn’t mark the ink and he could mull on it. He grabbed his dagger, tucked it inside his pants, pulled his shirt over it, and slipped outside.

* * *

“We’re holding a memorial for Arvid later this week.” Oliver’s hard stare bore into Henrik’s head. “We expect you to be there.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Captain bent over his desk like a sea eagle, arms splayed to the side, teeth clenched. “They didn’t find his body,” he said quietly, and with a shake of his head. “Not a sign.”

“Drowned?”

“Had to be.”

After a pause, Henrik said, “Rumor says we took a hostage. A Major, at that.”

“Yes.”

“Can you question him?”

“Already did, before we left him at the Unseen island to battle for his life. Fitting end, if you ask me.”

“No luck?”

Another head shake.

“Captain Arvid will be missed,” Henrik concluded.

Oliver shifted his jaw from side to side in deepening deliberation before he straightened up. “His Glory wants to move forward with Arvid’s replacement within the next month. He has confirmed that the position of Second Captain is between you and Harald. Interviews will commence . . . soon.”

Shock stalled his words.

“Next month?”

“Yes,” Oliver snapped. “You’ve proven capable except for an obvious issue with your jord reports.” He braced his palms on top of the desk, forearms flexing like ham hocks. “Do I need to lecture you on the importance of details, soldat? You can count , can’t you?”

The jibe didn’t bother him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then fix it.”

“I’ve noted the discrepancy. When the cleansing finishes, I’ll go into the Archives to pull my other jord reports and ensure this was an isolated incident. I already visited with the port authority on my way over here. He’s going to stall Ossian as soon as he returns so I can speak with him.”

Far from mollified, Oliver said, “Where do you think the twenty bags are?”

“I have ideas.”

“And?”

“I’ll find the culprit.”

Henrik wouldn’t throw Ossian into suspicion without hard evidence, though Oliver clearly wanted more information. Losing a contract with His Glory’s soldats would be the end of Ossian’s illustrious career, and his life. He’d lose any other work and become a pirate, or die trying.

Oliver eyed Henrik, head tilted to the side, before he said, “It’s your job to presume and deliver when jord is on the line. You realize that, soldat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“His Glory won’t settle for less.”

“I hope not. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“Fine, because you’re needed, Henrik.” Oliver eyed him with a tension that manifested only in his eyes. He glanced down, shook his head ever-so-slightly. “Between you and me, you’re a better fit than Harald. He’s a good soldat, but he doesn’t command the same respect as you. Other soldats will follow you, and we need that right now. More than ever.”

More than ever carried the weight of fathoms in it.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Not to mention that certain . . . perks . . . come with leadership.”

Henrik tilted his head.

“Perks, sir?”

Drawing a deep breath, Oliver said, “Access, Henrik. As one of his five Captains, you have unfettered access to all His Glory has to offer. Whatever you desire to know, is yours. Whatever you want to see, you shall. Do you understand?”

Henrik’s heart kicked up with a disbelieving hiss.

“That is very generous, sir.”

Oliver scowled. “Don’t toy with me, Henrik.”

“I would never.”

“Think about it.” Oliver tapped his forefinger on the side of his temple. “All right? Whatever you want. His Glory is good to his Captains, particularly the First and Second. He leans on his soldats.”

A moment of suspicion crept over Henrik with a creeping terror. Could Oliver know about Selma?

Impossible.

Yet . . .

“Sir, I?—”

Oliver held up a hand. “No. No questions allowed. You’ll receive commensurate pay, will work directly with His Glory, seal the name Henrik in history books yet again, and, of course, protect Stenberg from enemies without. There’s little that His Glory withholds from those he keeps dearest. All your closest-held desires.”

All your closest-held desires.

A trap.

This had to be a trap. It wouldn’t be beyond the soldat leadership to conduct a sneaky test, try to whittle out whether or not a soldat had closely held desires. They shouldn’t. A soldat was a weapon of the island, and had no dreams beyond procuring safety for His Glory and Stenberg at large.

Before he could formulate a response, Oliver jabbed a finger at the door.

“Get out of here. Oh, and soldat? Keep things down at the upcoming grappling tournament. I won’t be there.”

“But—”

Oliver held up a staying hand. “I know it’s tradition for me to start the grappling tournament by throwing the first punch, but you’ll have to deal with it. I don’t want the Old Pub getting out of hand like it did last year, or I’ll cut mead rations for every bastid in the group.” After a moment’s deliberation, he added, “And if you can help it, win. His Glory is already inclined to choose you, but I’d like to firm up your worthiness as a candidate.”

With that, he turned his back and dismissed Henrik without another word.