Illustration of a letter, magic wax seal, and a candle [https://i.imgur.com/uFfcQkj.png]
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May 9
Beastslayer
Somewhere in Time Strait
Dear Tarisa,
I know, you thought it was impossible to send a letter through the seals a day early. I learned from Mama that I could use my Touch to boost the seals and send something faster in dire circumstances, though I risked the seals’ destruction doing so. I was only to try it if the survival of the seals didn’t matter more than what I had to say, and Ree, I might be saying goodbye.
My hands are shaking, my stomach is sloshing like the Slayer in a typhoon. I barricaded the door with the captain’s trunk of smelly clothes, though the action was totally nonsensical. The chest is just a stack of sticks, a flimsy mental barrier between me and and whoever might be determined to barge in.
I stabbed a man. Ree, it looks so strange in black and white, so unbelievable. I can’t write the rest down now, I can’t—so I’ll start with the translation. What led to all this.
It’s been a week since the captain and Touchers died. For four days after being made captain, I mostly hid in my room, eating hardtack I’d cooked MYSELF weeks ago, pretending to decode the Navigator’s fictitious notes. The crew’s ignorance of magic worked to my advantage. I said to the quartermaster,“It will take several days to get ready for the binding ritual.”
Tory nodded credulously and spread my lies to the rest of the crew, for once calming them. In short, my stalling worked until the day I received Quinn’s translation of the passphrase on Hoy’s door.
The moment your letter appeared, I rushed to Navigator’s Hoy’s cabin before I’d read any further. With my lackluster Touch the latch stuck horribly even after I spoke the passphrase. The edges of my vision got fuzzy and I giggled groggily as I struggled with it. I thought I would faint, even though you know neither of us has ever been the type. Mama’s people were all too robust for that.
At last, the latch lifted and I was inside. I didn’t dare shut the door, but I didn’t want to be caught in here alone either, so I took off my boot and jammed it in the crack to barely keep the slab of wood open. I sat down on the floor, head in my hands for nearly a half hour before I felt the Touch-fizz recede enough to stir from that spot and explore. We use a special eel oil for light on board, since it won’t burn on wood treated with salt. The lamp cast the room in a ghastly green glow.
Navigator Hoy was the least tidy sailor I have ever seen. You wouldn’t know it, but most sailors are ordered creatures out of self-defense. Anything not bolted down or securely stowed away is liable to get destroyed in a gale as the ship see-saws back and forth. By contrast, Hoy had papers strewn across his narrow bunk, old cups from the galley rolling to and fro on the floor, his charts haphazardly scrolled and jammed in a cubby too small for them. I know what you must be thinking, “Perhaps the room was trashed by the murderer?” But I’m nearly positive this sort of cramped clutter takes months if not years to accumulate.
I decided to begin with solving the first problem: how to find out where we were? I started ripping through the charts. To my shock and dismay, none of them were for the Netherseas at all! There were charts of the waters near Solan, Trifay, the Yora Coast and nearly every major port in our world but nothing for the Netherseas.
His papers, likewise, were a colossal disappointment. Though I didn’t know it, Navigator Hoy was writing a memoir of life at sea, meant to be presented to the Royal Society of the Enchanted Arts back in Solan. Though I piled them neatly (you know me, I couldn’t help myself) I felt distinctly ill looking about the cabin. In fact, I put my hands over my face to block out the olive glow, trying to take deep breaths to calm the despair settling like a vulture on my shoulders.
Fingers tingling with frantic energy, I searched the cabin three times, but aside from some mathematical tomes far beyond my practical abilities, there was nothing else. No relics. Nothing on how to navigate with magic. Not a scribble on a page about what a person did to become captain of a nethership. For five days, I had pinned all my and the crew’s hopes of survival on a mirage.
Blindly, I stumbled from the cabin, running into solid flesh.
“M-Marc!” Bunt stammered. I’d about bowled over the cabin boy. He quickly corrected himself, actually blushing. “I mean, Captain Maisi.”
I forgot to tell you, most of the men still mockingly called me Marc after my gender became known, even after I gave them a false girl’s name (Maisi) that I thought I could remember thanks to our old duck. They’d obviously been calling me Marc still behind my back. I blinked at Bunt, not caring what he called me. “What is it?”
“I found him.”
I stared, mind blank as an egg.
“The man you wanted, that knows sea creatures and such? I found him.”
Numb, I followed Bunt to Uri, an uneducated man who had worked before the mast his whole life (‘before the mast’ means working as an ordinary sailor, usually without any hope of promotion to officer). He waited in the empty galley, dozing against the wall. When Uri saw me he certainly didn’t nod in respect, but he bothered to sit up a little, for which grace I was grateful.
“Captain Mar’,” he said with a slur, smiling a bit.
It was an odd mix of my new title and old name, jarring enough that I snapped out of my leftover shock enough to talk to him. “Bunt says you’re a knowledgeable man.”
Uri stared at me like I’d grown a third eye, like I was one of those monstrous spiny eels we drag up off the bottom for food. “I’m what, now?”
I sat across from him, sharply pulling myself together, trying not to remember the useless cabin I’d just broken into. Uri didn’t know it, but he’d just been promoted to ‘only hope’ for figuring out our location. “I heard you know all about sea creatures. That you’ve been sailing these waters for years.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He said it belligerently, suspiciously. I leaned forward, ignoring the prickles, letting him see my desperate earnestness. “The truth is, Uri, we need to discover where we are, and I think you can help with that. At home, certain fish live close to the coast, others in the deep, some in warm currents others in cold, right?”
Uri nodded warmly, obviously a fisherman at heart. “So?”
“So, if we fish enough, and you identify the catch, we might be able to surmise where in the Strait we’ve drifted to. Have you ever noticed where the ship tends to catch certain fish?”
The old man blinked owlishly, rubbing his square chin. Unlike most of the crew, he kept himself roughly clean-shaven, so I could hear his calloused fingers scratching on his scruff. “Matter of fact, I have. ‘Course that’s when the fish are biting, and sometimes the Strait’s so deep our line doesn’t reach. You’re hoping to get a location off a bit of fish?”
“Yes, sir.”
The ‘sir’ was a mistake. He obviously thought I was mocking him, face darkening. Despite my best efforts to remain stoic and commanding, I blushed. “I’m still getting used to being behind the mast, Uri.”
Without response, he stood, starting to weave his way between the tables, towards the stairs. Bunt spoke for me, a bit of daring I hadn’t seen before. “Where you going, sir?”
Uri turned at the door and shrugged. “Fishing.”
I slumped in relief. One thing had gone right. But the relief was short-lived.
Praising and dismissing Bunt, I was left alone in the galley to read your letter, slurp it up really. I’m very sorry my words wounded, T. I had no idea how trapped you are—or seem to be, because I think your idea for escape is splendid. Only, please tell Nate I’m all right! Namans don’t keep secrets like this from each other, and my heroic self-control in leaving it up to you is fraying at the edges.
At risk of hurting you again, I have to say that bit with Quinn was badly done could have been better. You implied he isn’t family. You know Papa loved Quinn almost as much as Nate, and we’re all the family Quinn has left. His relatives in Trifay hardly count; he’s never met them and they all but disowned Quinn’s father after the ceasefire. Our steward is as much an orphan as you and I. Propriety is one thing, T, but I think you might have hurt a friend. Please care for him as faithfully as he’s cared for us all these years.
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In that vein, I’m going to give you more advice you probably don’t want. Men in love are often foolish and I don’t think it’s a bad thing. Don’t take away Camden’s chance to sacrifice for you, because you deserve it. No matter what happens in the next few weeks, don’t lose faith, Ree.
I’ve delayed as long as I can. Here comes the turning. As I was sitting, contemplating your letter, shaking a little as I decided what to do next, Tory and two other crewman clumped down to the galley.
“You ready to take the helm, Captain?”
I didn’t answer, quickly realizing no answer was required. Xavi and Horice, the men Tory brought with him, are great muscly specimens, all hair and aggression. They moved at once to flank me as I stood up, all the while pretending this was my idea. Ready or not, I would make the attempt to complete the binding and become true captain of the Beastslayer.
Rising up through the bowels of the ship, I stepped out on deck into the night. Here in the Netherworld, there are no stars, but ribbons of magic that ripple across the sky like snakes, color varying according to no pattern I can discern. Tonight, the sky was cast in a seasick purple that made everyone look like they were about to die of the plague.
I say “everyone” because the entire crew had somehow been assembled on deck as I read your letter in the galley, none the wiser. Everyone, that is, but the surgeon Sawl and the sick crewmen. No one saluted or acknowledged my captainship whatsoever. I was met with dozens of hard, antagonistic, fearful, or concerned stares. It seemed as if all the eyes blurred together into one blob-monster from the deep. I should have said something to turn the monster into men again, but no words would come.
As I climbed up to the quarterdeck, Tory handed me a knife, and I gazed at the wheel. It’s an ancient, scarred edifice as wide in diameter as Bunt is tall, the spokes smoothed from many hands. I could see other names and symbols scratched into the spindle and barrels of the wheel—the marks of old captains.
This was all I knew about the task before me, that somehow, a captain scratched their name in the wheel and made a binding connection with the ship that let them steer.
Curving my hand around one of the helm’s spokes, I felt no stirring from my Touch, no hint of life from the wood grain. Finding a bare spot, I scratched away at it like a bored student vandalizing their desk, clumsily spelling Maree because I was too afraid it wouldn’t work without my real name, the carving too poor to read anyway.
I pulled back, waiting. The sea was stiflingly calm, the sails barely rippling as the tide of fear below me rose from the men like an audible roar. I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck.
A too-loud whisper from Cook rasped against the silence. “She’s been lyin’ all along about having the Touch. Just wanted a fancy cabin, better than she should be.”
“Lying wench.”
The murmurs softly rose as Tory shifted behind me making the boards squeak. I had a moment of inspiration, rising and dusting off my shaking palms with brisk purpose. “Well, that’s the first bit done.”
Tory stopped short and so did the mutters.
“First bit?” Tory peered at the wheel, futilely trying to read my chicken-scratch.
“It’s not so simple, captaining a nethership,” I said mysteriously. Then, before they could stop me, I descended, breezing past the crowd and into the darkness below. I went back to my quarters and threw up into one of the captain’s old caps.
For two days after that I turned Navigator Hoy’s cabin upside down, refusing to believe the evidence of my eyes—even read half his wretched memoir. Despite its length and dryness, Hoy’s memoir didn’t include any practical insights into his or the captain's job at all, dwelling instead on vague philosophies of magic he had seen manifested in places I’d never heard of like Goilin and Er’Oth.
The men didn’t stop haunting me the whole time, glaring when I moved through the channels of the ship, derisively calling after me, “Show us some magic, cow!” I took to keeping Nate’s knife tied to my wrist again, and locking the door to whatever cabin I was in. The fights onboard became hourly as the panic rose to nearly that of a week ago. I told Tory firmly when he cornered me, “Two days, the next bit takes two days of communing with the ship.”
He believed me because he had to, but in the end, it made no difference. There was no saving grace to be found in Hoy’s cabin and soon I was forced to admit that truth to myself. When I finally did give up, I’m afraid I did so in something of a cold, numb panic, retreating to the captain’s cabin to plan my next move. I hadn’t reached my new bunk before I heard a growing commotion from above. The shouting swiftly grew louder until I believed someone or something had been set on fire, running above decks.
There wasn’t a fire, but nearly the entire crew was on deck by now anyway, many pointing starboard, a stiff gale blowing their hair about and giving every last soul the look of crazed, doomed men. I followed their gazes. The blood rushed from my face.
A low, sparkling red fog, many miles distant, clogged the surface of the water, not scattering a bit in the stiff wind. They call these fogs Widow-Makers or Blood-Baths, toxic to breathe, eroding even the rigging and sails until the pockmarked canvases fall to the deck, useless. Even if you can fight free of the deadly stuff, the magic clings to surfaces, affecting the crew and ship for years to come, sometimes requiring the nethership to be burned.
I’m disturbed by your suspicions about Sawl, and he certainly was in the thick of things, along with Haver and Trin, who stood on a nearby crate waving their arms. Those three men were trying to calm the crowd down with soothing words I couldn’t even hear over the melee because Tory was too busy as quartermaster riling everyone up. “We’ll have to try the oars, as I said from the salt-sogged beginning! We—”
On second thought, to save the captain’s store of paper, I’ll put all the bedlam in a single paragraph. You might as well just guess who said what, for it doesn’t matter now:
“What about the captain?” “That light-skirt, tripe-brain! She’s useless!” “We’ll die! The fog already looks closer!” “I say we make rafts and start to drift, at least we’ll have a chance!” “You say? You can’t even read, Jor! Think you can find Neth or Gor or Edethien, just by spitting into the breeze?”
This last comment started a brawl, and I took a step back, frightened by the ferocity. I realized my worst fears were coming true. The men were nearly insane with fear and helplessness.
My back hit wood. I’d been driven to the wall by the stairs up to the quarterdeck. It sent a shock through me, knowing in the face of all this, I’d nearly turn and run. It was then I realized Bunt had sidled closer as if to seek comfort—or perhaps to protect me, his chin thrust out bravely.
The sight broke something within me or perhaps mended it. I recalled what you said, T, about my being intimidated. Even so, please don’t blame yourself for what happened next.
I climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck and whistled—you know the one, Papa taught it to us, enough to make a dead man wake up and blink. One and all, the men whirled about searching for the sound, some with a cry of fear as they looked wildly skyward. They obviously expected a flying hagith or a dragon, so I whistled again, this time proving it was something far more mythical to them: the lowly cook’s girl demanding their attention.
“No one is tearing up the deck!” I shouted. “And we’re not wasting the oars! Tomorrow, I’ll take this ship in hand and we’ll outrun the fog! Every line, every sail, every board of the Beast Slayer was built to survive, and we will too!”
Some murmurs rose by the end of my speech. I could see a few men already dismissing me, turning away halfway through, and some of Mama’s temper flared at the sight. I didn’t know that fire was still there, but I found myself screaming what Captain Clacey used to say every other breath, “Let me hear an aye-aye!”
“Aye!” The scattered cry was sullen, but also a little hopeful. Of the forty men standing around, at least half had lost the crazed look. They believed not in me, but blindly in the Touchers that made the ship move, having never given any serious thought to how that was done. They didn’t know I barely had the Touch, hadn’t a clue how to steer, or even where we were.
Yet one of the men broke free of the crowd—Roger, one of the crazies. His fists were curled, and being a rigger, his arms were like braided steel. He rushed me so suddenly, so silently, that no one reacted but me.
I lifted my hand, swinging Nate’s dagger on its tether up into my palm, swiping with it as Roger filled my vision, the smell, the fury, the weight of him all hitting me at once. I had meant to keep the man at bay. Instead, I felt a sort of thud as my knife found his shoulder.
Roger yelled and swore, swaying into the railing of the quarterdeck. Before I could even realize there was blood, the surgeon Sawl was already there, grappling the man in an embrace that was both restraining and restrictive to his arm, keeping the wound still as blood dripped down to his elbow.
That bloody reality smacked me like a rotten fish in the teeth, and I hastily descended the stairs, trying not to hurl again before I got to my cabin. I’ve been hiding here ever since, visited only by Bunt who asked if I was all right (not a chance) and oh-so-helpfully told me they’ve caught three fish and the fog is a little closer. I told him to tell Tory I needed time to prepare but would complete the ritual and take the helm at dawn unless the fog moved before then.
Tarisa, this is why I boosted the seals with my magic, to send this to you even though I received your message only three days ago. Mama once told me its possible, but puts a dangerous strain on the seals, so I won’t write much more or try such a stunt again. If you write back quickly, the power might last long enough for a short reply. Regardless, I wanted you to know what happened to me, in case it is the worst.
That doesn’t sound like me, but it has been written between every line of every letter we’ve exchanged. I’ve spoken in possibilities, but you know and I know those terrible possibilities are much more certain than we’ve been willing to admit, going on about plans and strategies. The Nethersea is dangerous enough that even killers take a minor role compared to the devilishness of the sea itself. Between the fog and the violence of the men, I’m afraid I might not survive to write another letter.
If you don’t hear from me within two weeks, I want you to tell Nate everything and inform Erring and the king that I’ve died. Show them your seal—I know someone will probably steal it, and the seal was Mama’s, but if it saves you and Nate it’s what she’d want—and forge some letters to give him. You’ve always been brilliant at imitating handwriting, and you could fool anyone with a piece of pen and paper. Make it appear as if I acted alone, taking the seal and not responding until a few weeks ago…then you can tell them I died on the Nethersea and you and Nate should be free.
There are so many things I’d wish to say, but all I can really write is I love you and Nate, forever.
Maree
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May 9
Rosetree
Solan
M:
Never mind goodbyes. I love you, and I'll hear from you soon. I will.
T