“Yes,” I said. “My name is Mary Firth, and I am a Stormsinger.”
SOOTH—Being a mage with an unnatural ability to conjure visions and trespass into the Other, whether by striding the border between worlds, where future, past, and present can be glimpsed, or by sinking fully into that other realm, where they may sight and track the souls of other, unwary mages. See also SEER, EDGE-WALKER, MEREISH SUMMONER.
—FROM THE WORDBOOK ALPHABETICA: A NEW
WORDBOOK OF THE AEADINES
THREE
The Fourth Man
SAMUEL
This is despicable and I will have no part of it.” I glared out of the windows at the back of the great cabin. Through their frost-latticed glass, Whallum’s assemblage of narrow houses, shops and warehouses leaned on one another like drunkards, capped with snow and skirted by sailors, dockworkers, hawkers and townsfolk. More snow dusted from the sky, early even for this corner of the Winter Sea, summoned by the meddling of the very woman I now found myself defending. “We cannot bring a Stormsinger aboard. Not like this. Not against her will. We should wait for a proper indenture from the Crown.”
“An indenture will never come, Mr. Rosser.” Captain Slader laid down the pistol he had been polishing and took up its pair. A retired naval captain and as shrewd as they came, he was small-eyed and bore the disposition of an aged cat.
He picked up a turnscrew, removed the pistol’s lock and handed the rest of the weapon to Ms. Helena Fisher: ship’s master, first officer, and my rival. “We’re privateers—hardly priority.”
“I will have no part,” I repeated.
Fisher gave a soft snort. She cocked one eyebrow, fine and black against light brown skin, and fit a swath of flax wool to the end of a ramrod. Vulpine to Slader’s feline, she had keen brown eyes and an artist’s fine fingers.
Twisting the wool into place, she commented, “There is no chance of capturing Lirr without a Stormsinger. Surely you understand how these things work.”
I kept my gaze flat. Fisher was not wrong. Silvanus Lirr, pirate, warlord, and our sole commission, had a weather mage aboard. Without one ourselves, we risked the Winter Sea battering our ship to pieces in the pursuit, or Lirr’s mage sinking us with an ensorcelled wind. We would be handing him every advantage, and our chances of catching him would be slim.
But it was not impossible.
Captain Slader began to clean the pistol’s lock with a cloth. “Ms. Fisher is correct. This auction is an unsavory business, I agree. But this Charles Grant fellow seemed respectable enough. I assume the woman will be well treated.”
I stared at him in indignation. “Well treated? You know how they find singers, sir, and what they do to them if they are not powerful enough.”
“We need the witch.” Fisher dampened the flax. She emphasized her next words by plunging the rod down the barrel of the pistol. “If our methods are so distasteful, perhaps you should return to the Navy, Lieutenant.”
Slader measured my response as he smeared tallow and beeswax about the mechanism. A beat of silence stretched as both he and Fisher waited for me to erupt, but I took my anger in an iron fist, focusing on the sounds of snow shushing off the window and the cleaning of dismembered pistols. The scent of old gunpower, fat and wax soured my nose.
Disappointed by her failure to provoke me, Fisher removed the blackened flax and spun on a new portion to dry the barrel.
“If the auction is our only option, I will go,” I grudgingly conceded.
“Good.” Slader glanced over the newly oiled lock and set it aside. “But for now, you are dismissed, Ms. Fisher. Mr. Rosser, stay here.”
Fisher looked as though she wanted to protest but relinquished the pistol and rod to Slader. Then, burgundy hem of her frock coat brushing the doorframe in an elegant swirl, she left the cabin.
The door closed and the captain looked me over, from the buckles of my worn black shoes to my neatly tied hair, now disheveled by an agitated hand. “I’ve said it before, but I shall say it again, Mr. Rosser. Your past will never leave you, nor will those like Fisher. You must reconcile yourself to your circumstances, or you’ll lose your place on this vessel. As you did on your last.”
I forced my gaze out the stern windows again, and nodded.
“As to this Stormsinger,” Slader said as he began to reassemble the flintlock, “I understand your principles. I know you want to redeem yourself in the eyes of the world, and bringing down Lirr is certainly a good opportunity to do that. But we need the Stormsinger to succeed. She will be much happier in our company than others, in any case. Or would you rather she’s taken on by pirates? Saint, there are captains of the Fleet with less scruples than you or I. You know that as well as I do. Now, you’ve three thousand solems to bid—use them well.”
The last of my anger wavered, then released into weary resignation. This was the way of the world, the nature of life on the Winter Sea.
One day I would rise above it. One day I would scrape the mud from my name and face my family without shame. But for now, I would do Slader’s bidding.
“I will, sir.”
*
Fisher waited for me on the snowy dock as I descended the gangplank, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat and her tricorn hat already christened with snow. She gave me a prompting look and started walking before I had stepped onto the dock.
I, in turn, made no effort to catch up. Instead, I popped the collar of my coat and fastened the top button as I glanced back at Hart. He was a solid vessel, his forty-two guns quiet behind their white-painted hatches, three masts standing tall with each sail neatly furled. Formerly a fifth-rate Aeadine warship, he had been decommissioned and sold to Slader some twenty years ago after single-handedly sinking three Mereish sloops. Hart had barely survived the encounter, worth little more than the ghisting who inhabited his figurehead.
During the ship’s restoration, Slader had removed many of the hallmarks of Aeadine warships, including the decorative paint that once adorned the circumference of his quarterdeck—blue or red or white, depending on the fleet, with quotes from the Saint in illegible gilt letters. All that remained now were Hart’s black hull, white hatches, and the figurehead.
The great hart for which the ship was named reared up beneath the bowsprit, head thrown back in a soundless bay. His coat was painted a muted red-brown, while his white antlers enclosed the entire beakhead, ghistenwood twining together with lesser, standard material.
“Are you well, Mr. Rosser?” Fisher called back to me.
I looked away from the ship and lengthened my strides to catch up. “Do not pretend you care, Fisher.”
“And you wonder why we’re not friends.” She tsked, dropping down onto the quayside, both heels landing at once. “Really, Sam.”
“I have never wondered that.”
“Not once?”
“Not at all.”
I joined her and we left Hart behind, weaving through stacks of goods to the main street. Scents of cooking food and hot mulled wine wafted from taverns, where locals mingled with sailors and travelers under smoke-heavy beams. Music wafted from windows too, strings and drums and fifes, as I followed Fisher through the premature winter.
Cold nipped at my skin. I shoved my hands into my pockets, where my fingers brushed across the smooth, long face of an oval coin. I fingered it, letting its worn surface steady me. A soft hum, ever present at the back of my mind, quietened.