“So? He’s an artist. That last opera of his was supposed to be mighty fine. I can’t wait to finally see it when they put it on again. But maybe all this music work took something out of him, something vital.”
“You ask me about taking something vital out of him, I’d say you’re looking in the wrong place. It’s that princess of his…”
“Keep your voice down, Julio! Or we’ll be next to the front lines, feeding crows with our bones and not seagulls with our fish.”
After Ursula made her （predictably） dramatic exit from her study, Eric stayed, pulling out his composition book and turning to the piece called “Interlude for a Villain’s Lair.” Since the sending Triton to Ibria thing had all been a ruse, Vanessa was probably still keeping the king as close to her as possible. If she had just killed him, she wouldn’t have hidden the fact; she would have bragged about it. The sea witch wasn’t terribly complicated once you got to know her. Almost predictable in her less dangerous habits.
He carefully checked off everything that was the same as the last time he searched the room: creepy, evil dagger? Check. Teapot and tea accessories? Check. It all looked pretty much the same…In fact, the only really new item was an untidy pile of maps and charts on the table. Eric riffled through them. Some were immediately obvious and discouraging: troop numbers, approximate locations of enemy forts and towers, friendly towns. There were atlases with arrows drawn on them in pencil, where future land grabs might be made. There was a list of world leaders, mostly minor, with notes next to each name: Friendly! Neutral. Mad? Aggressive.
Her plans were like a little girl’s fantasy, all sketched out in a book titled something like Princess Vanessa’s Plan to Conquer the Known World, in curlicue letters, with hearts dotting the Is.
Eric shook his head and pushed the papers aside. Beneath were the plans for the new warships and marine cartographic charts, with coasts, depths, and dangerous reefs sketched in, channels described, destinations plotted…
He frowned at the coordinates.
She wasn’t sending the fleet up the Verdant Coast to harass and intimidate their neighbors like she had threatened—and as would be logical, were one beginning to conquer the continent.
It looked like…
It looks like she’s sending them out to sea? Deep sea?
Along with the charts was a map, mostly blank and unlabeled. There was no key, no compass rose, no marks around the outside to indicate latitude or size. The background was plain as if it were just open sea or field, but with no decorative patterns to indicate either. On this was drawn what appeared to be islands, sketched by an unskilled hand, but ringed as if the topography were known. One large bean-shaped mass had a few details to differentiate it from the others: a scalloped edge on one side, and what looked like a tiny crown in the middle of the right half of the bean.
Eric stared at it, puzzled. It didn’t look like any part of the world he knew, or even illustrations of New South Wharen. He looked around on her desk to see if there was anything else that might give a hint as to what it was, but only found different versions of the strange map, smaller and even more crudely drawn. First drafts. Some of these had arrows on them in the same way the war maps did, but they floated over the open spaces and had no troop numbers or anything indicating enemy defenses.
Mysterious. Was it a map to invisible sources of power? Were the arrows ley lines, flows of magic or power that were all the rage among modern seers and bored gentlefolk?
He took the smallest, crudest map and folded it into his pocket.
Maybe Ariel would know. They would meet again at the next tide, in nine hours. In the meantime, he would go through atlases and research it as best he could until that time. Her father might have to wait a bit while he did.
On his way to the library he passed through the drawing room, where serious visitors were entertained with brandy and harpsichord music and interesting books and globes. Vareet was sitting at the fancy mahogany desk, drawing.
Eric walked by her—and then stopped.
He had never seen the little maid entertaining herself with her own pursuits in public. He rarely saw her smiling. Once in a great while he saw her skipping through the halls, overcome by some fancy, or grinning as she exited the kitchen, special gifted treat in her hands. But whatever she did when she was given her—precious little—time off, she did it on her own, someplace hidden.
“What are you doing, pretty lass?” he asked, kneeling down. It was a little awkward. He had no trouble throwing balls to children who were chasing each other outside, or getting into mock fencing bouts with young footmen. But he had no clue how to approach a quiet little girl.