Shadow Dance Read online

  I sat quietly on my side of the carriage, looking out at the patchwork of emerald sugar cane and lighter blue-green summer wheat.

  We passed a line of fieldmen walking along the edge of the road, hoes angled over their shoulders, water-gourds hanging from their belts, pants tied up at their knees so they could wade between the cane stalks. They smiled and waved as the carriage went by, talking and laughing amongst themselves.

  I turned away to study my gloved hands in my lap. They were shaking slightly, so I wove my fingers together. My stomach was in knots.

  The ride down to the river docks was short. Less than an hour later, we were all installed aboard the Coralynne.

  It was strange to be aboard the ship with just Braeton, Arramy, and the ship's crew. Too quiet. I took one look at that empty little alcove outside my cabin and kept going, climbing the stairs to the observation deck, walking to the fore railing as the Coralynne got underway and began steaming down the river.

  We made a brief stop in Nimkoruguithu that was more for appearance than anything; Braeton had already gotten what he needed on Arramy's crew, but he left anyway under the pretext of gathering information about the leak. He was gone for several hours, during which I dozed in a deck chair.

  When he returned, Arramy was waiting for him, and they went into the command room to discuss what Braeton had 'discovered.' I didn't have to be there to know how their conversation went. Braeton and I had already figured that out in his study: a message had been dropped off at the Magistrate's Bureau, and whatever it said had created quite a stir. The message tape had been burned upon receipt, though, and the courier couldn't be traced. Meanwhile, we would leave for the Continent so we could get to the fake party we had invented to cover up the fact that we were going to a real one somewhere else – offering the captain just enough fodder to tell him we knew something in order to divert his attention from what we really did know.

  I didn't see Braeton or Arramy again before we set out for the open ocean on the late tide. Then it was only Braeton and I at dinner. Arramy had already retired for the evening.

  And that was it. That was my first day spent as Pendar Tarastrian.

  34th of Nima

  There wasn't much to do that second day, either. Mostly I sat around reading and dozing off to the sound of the water on the prow.

  35th of Nima

  A spring storm rolled in, bringing stiff winds, pelting rain, high waves and deep troughs. I spent the third day in my cabin, clutching a bucket in one hand and the edge of my bunk with the other while cursing sea travel to blazes.

  36th of Nima

  The last day of the month dawned in a riot of fiery clouds scudding over a choppy sea.

  I peeled myself out of bed and got dressed, thankful that the deck wasn't pitching so wildly, and my stomach wasn't trying to rid itself of the biscuits I had eaten the night before. I was up on the upper-level observatory, watching the waves curl away from the cutwater, when approaching footsteps had me turning to look over my shoulder.

  "Morning," Arramy said quietly. He had two large mugs of tea, both of them steaming hot.

  For too long I simply stood looking at the mugs, watching dumbly as he offered one to me and took a sip from the other. It was so normal. Just tea. My throat ached anyway. I needed to keep up some semblance of pretense, but he had no right to bring me tea. Raggan was the one who had brought me tea. Arramy might well have been the one who —

  "Most sailors drink a pint for the fallen," Arramy murmured when I didn't move. "Not Raggan. He always drank tea. So he could remember his fallen more often."

  That did sound like something Raggan would do. Perhaps by accident, Arramy had just given me the line I needed to cling to. I didn't have to pretend anything about Raggan. Slowly, I reached out and wrapped my fingers around the cool metal of the insulative handle. Then I made myself give Arramy a little nod as I took the mug from him, closing my eyes as I lifted it and inhaled the familiar scent of citrus peel and spices.

  Arramy leaned his hip against the railing and gazed out at the sunrise.

  That tea was the same sailor's tea as before, strong and bitter, but suddenly it meant more than it ever had. My father. Raggan. The people lost in the attack on the Stryka, even the people on the Galvania, and all the other victims of the Coventry. Those were my fallen. I blew away the steam, then took a careful sip, hoping the tremor in my fingers wasn't obvious.

  We finished our tea in silence. When the sun had nearly cleared the horizon, Arramy pushed away from the railing and went limping toward the stairs. "Right. Come on, kid."

  I frowned. "What?"

  "Come on," he said, starting down the steps. "No more moping around. You've got work to do."

  I gaped at the now-empty stairwell. "And what is that supposed to mean?" I called.

  "It means I'm going to teach you how to defend yourself before we get to the Continent," Arramy said from somewhere on the first deck. "So come down here. I've got something for you."

  Huh. I scowled, suddenly remembering large sea-roughened hands covering mine and the warmth of strong arms around me. Stop that. I made myself take one last swig of tea before I went down to find out what Arramy was planning. I also made myself walk. No need to seem overeager.

  24. Get Up and Try Again

  5th of Dema

  I learned many things in the course of the next five days. For instance, I learned that strong arms and sea-roughened hands could lose a little of their appeal if they belonged to a big, grumpy, stone-headed Northlander who had no sense of decency or mercy or kindness.

  I also discovered that as a teacher, Arramy's two favorite words were "get," and "up." By the end of that first week I had developed an intense dislike for those two words. "Get up," he would say. As if I was sprawling on the floor for the fun of it. "Try again." Two more words to hate. Put together, they quickly became the most annoying phrase I had ever heard: "Get up. Try again."

  At first my lessons made sense.

  There was the snub-nosed pistol meant to be easily concealed in a handpurse or pocket. That was simple enough. I just had to be within two yards of my opponent, and they would wind up with an extra hole somewhere in their person.

  The small infuser cartridge armed with a potent debilitating agent was even easier to use. Arramy had designed it especially for me. Sturdy enough to take a beating, small enough to hide easily. All I had to do was pull the cartridge out of wherever it was concealed in my clothing, touch the end full of hollow, spring-loaded needles to any part of my assailant I could reach, and push the button on the top. It could disable a grown man in under ten seconds and looked like a bee sting when they eventually came to. I just had to be careful to make sure the pointy end wasn't up.

  Arramy also insisted on teaching me to use one of the new-fangled incendiary rifles the navy had recently issued. They looked nearly the same as the old powder carbines, but the new ones were heavier, with a bulky trigger housing and a telescoping sight. The loading mechanism popped open at the back instead of on the side, and it took a whole cartridge of ten incendiary rounds instead of one at a time. I had to learn how to twist the cartridge until the contact prongs popped into their slots, slam the tail shut, square my stance, bring the butt up to my shoulder, sight through the crosshairs, let out my breath, and fire. Then I had to pick myself up after the recoil knocked me flat, and try again, because ten to one I had been off by a hair, and at that range, 'a hair' meant I missed.

  The last six days had been spent shooting at human-shaped targets until my shoulders burned and my arms trembled. It was difficult, but it was all for a purpose, so I kept at it. And, almost unbelievably, I began making progress. Little by little, my percentages began improving. My one-in-ten ratio of kills to shots became seven-in-ten. Yesterday, I made kill-shots twenty times in a row three times, which was impressive enough to make even Braeton and a few of the crew applaud.

  Last night I went to bed daring to think – ah, irony – that I was actually begi
nning to get somewhere. I could do this. I could defend myself. I could rise above being a liability.

  All that changed this morning.

  This morning, I did not shoot at anything from a comfortably safe distance. No. This morning I discovered the joy that was hand to hand combat with a much larger opponent.

  ~~~

  "You have got to move! Don't hesitate, don't just stand there and watch me! My reach is twice yours. You have to make me work for it," Arramy shouted, bending over me, his scowling face blotting out the sunlight. Then he straightened and stalked back to his starting point on annoyingly steady feet.

  I gazed up at the faultless curve of blue sky above me and tried to drag air into my lungs. It wasn't working. I might as well have been back at the Moonflower, pinned to the wall. I felt that same helplessness, that same overwhelming vulnerability every time Arramy came at me 'for real.' He started moving and instantly all my muscles went weak and shaky, my breath slammed to a stop in my chest, while whatever maneuvers he had just taught me went dribbling right out of my mind. Every time. Like clockwork. I froze stiff, and he plowed me down like a freighter at full speed.

  It didn't help that even with two healing bullet holes, a stab wound, and countless claw marks, cuts and bruises, Arramy could still toss me around like a matchstick without breaking a sweat.

  And, also like clockwork, there it was, in that deep, raspy Northlander brogue: "Come on kid. Get up. Try again."

  I growled one of his favorite curse words under my breath. Everything hurt. My shoulder and hip throbbed where they had hit the deck, my ribs ached where his arm had connected with my torso, and my pride burned because I was proving him right. I was a liability. A weak point. My vision went blurry, tears welling up whether I wanted them to or not. I closed my eyes and ground my teeth together, determined not to let those tears escape.

  I could do this. I had to. If I didn't, he would win. I rolled over and pushed myself to my feet for the twentieth time in an hour.

  Arramy watched me. For someone so intent on pulverizing me to mincemeat, he was quite patient. I didn't for one half a tick let myself think it was because he cared. It was more like a cat waiting for the mouse to revive and run so the hunt could begin again.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  I let out a short, bitter laugh and swiped the back of my hand across my sweat-slick forehead. "I guess – "

  I hadn't even finished that sentence before he was lunging forward, charging at me, and that was all it took. I couldn't breathe, my muscles locked up tight. The only thought in my brain was that a man was going to put his hands on me, and I wouldn't be able to stop him. It didn't matter that we were nowhere near the Moonflower. Arramy was strong, and male, and in my head it was over already. I was smaller, and weaker, and —

  "Move!"

  Arramy's snarl had me stumbling backwards, my hands coming up to fend him off, my steps clumsy, my limbs all but useless.

  "Good!" he barked. "You took dance lessons, use them!"

  I made a lurching attempt to twirl away from him... too late. I didn't change direction fast enough, and then his arm was around my waist, and he was hauling me up against him, my back to his chest.

  "Come on!" Arramy growled in my ear. "Don't give up, kid, fight!"

  I let out a whimper and grabbed at his hand, part of me recognizing how ridiculous it was to be shutting down during a simple practice round, even while my muscles shook, and my grip faltered.

  "Harder. Harder! Pinch that nerve. Go ahead. You aren't stronger than my arm, but you're stronger than my fingers —" He swore as I wrenched the knuckle of his fourth finger back toward his wrist like he had shown me. His right arm loosened, and I knew I must be causing him pain, but he didn't let me stop. "Turn into it. Good! Don't let up, now use your elbow —"

  I couldn't reach his face, but I could reach his throat, and I brought my elbow up into his windpipe.

  He coughed, and his grip released just a little more.

  Something snapped. I began fighting like a wild thing, not caring what sort of damage I did. The side of my head struck his jaw, and then I was forcing his hand away from me, kicking hard at his knee before I twisted out of his arms and shot away from him, pelting down the main deck.

  I had gotten away. Finally. It should have been a victory, but it only made me dizzy. I had to learn how to outfight the Coventry, and there I was, hardly able to believe I had managed to escape someone who wasn't even trying to kill me. I was still running, blindly fleeing a dead man in Nimkoruguithu, very real terror throbbing in my veins even now, weeks later. I had a mountain to climb, and I was still struggling out of a hole full of ghosts.

  I came to a halt at the bottom of the observation deck stairs and bent double, my shoulders heaving. I allowed myself a moment to feel pathetically glad to be on my own two feet. Then I straightened my spine and turned to face Arramy.

  He was standing where I had left him, one hand at his hip, the other raised as he skimmed his thumb along the corner of his mouth, carefully testing the extent of what would be a nasty bruise. I had hit him hard enough to bloody his lip.

  I had done that. I had made him bleed, this decorated war hero who could snap a grown man's neck with his bare hands; this man who was both traitor and teacher. It was obvious he was letting me win, but at the same time I hadn't lost, and a new, tenuous little spark of confidence was flaring to life.

  Arramy stared at me, his expression unreadable as I returned to my starting point and took up my beginning pose again. Then, without a word, he walked back to the other end of the sparring mat.

  This time I only froze for an instant, and he didn't have to tell me what to do when he caught me.

  25. Bullets and Hairpins

  6th of Dema

  "Most valuable targets," Arramy mumbled.

  I glanced at him. He was stretched out on one of the deck loungers, lolling on his back, a bolster pillow under his head and his elbow crooked over his eyes. I, on the other hand, hadn't been allowed to sit down since he pounded on my cabin door before dawn. I gave him a beady-eyed stare but bit my annoyance off short. It wouldn't do any good to snap at him. He would only snap right back and make me do another round.

  "Head, shoulders, chest upper right, chest middle, groin, knee, ankle," I recited, loading a round into the Misinet's bullet reel.

  "Good."

  I snapped the reel into place, brought my arm up, steadied my hand, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The Misinet coughed once, and a split-second later there was a bright flash and a puff of smoke as the incendiary ball exploded on impact and another hole blossomed in the 'forehead' of the target Arramy had painted on the wall beneath the observatory deck stairs.

  "Good," Arramy said again without looking. "Take a break."

  Finally! With a sigh, I rolled my shoulder a few times, trying to work out the kinks as I marched over to the tea table, grabbed a rag, and began cleaning the Misinet. If it didn't pass inspection, I'd have to spend an hour breaking it down and cleaning it tomorrow.

  Braeton came trotting down the stairs from the observation deck, then. "If you two are quite finished ruining the woodwork, would you please bathe before coming up for dinner?" He gave both of us a wide berth on his way to the stairwell aft of the cabins. "You reek," he called over his shoulder, disappearing belowdecks.

  Arramy moved his elbow and glared after Braeton, upper lip lifted in a sneer.

  "He's right. We do have an odor," I said, stowing the Misinet and starting off down the promenade. The farther north we went, the cooler the air had gotten, but it wasn't anywhere near as cold as it had been on our last trip to Lordstown. Winter's bite was melting away, and the sun had been quite warm all afternoon. I was sweating far more than a lady should.

  Arramy got to his feet. "You, perhaps, have an odor. I smell like a man."

  "So... men smell like dirty stockings and Best's Bicarbonate?" I turned to give him a sly grin as his long stride brought him even with me.

  H
e deadpanned. "Better that than hair tonic and Talver's Personal Balm."

  "Ah, but that's cheating." I stopped in front of my personal lounging nook. "Anything smells better than Talver's Personal Balm."

  "I rest my case."

  Chuckling, I ducked through the flap in the insect netting and glanced back at him. He was lingering at the railing, watching me leave. I shook my head but couldn't keep my grin from growing as I crossed my lounge to my cabin door. "Take a bath!"

  He dipped his head, and I got a glimpse of that rare smile before he about-faced and headed toward his own cabin.

  I sobered. I hadn't been pretending to laugh, which was both dangerous and helpful at the same time. But that just fit right in with the puzzle wrapped in a contradiction that was Captain Arramy of the Coalition Navy. Laughing with him on one breath, and on the next deliberately lying to him because he might very well be the enemy. Suspecting him of terrible things while he taught me to defend myself against people who do terrible things. There was nothing simple about dealing with the man.

  With a weary sigh I pushed the door open and rang for Ina.

  ~~~

  Ina surveyed the product of an hour's hard work and smiled, obviously pleased. "Oh, you do look a picture, Miss."

  I squinted at the young woman in the mirror. She squinted back at me. She was me, but a me from another lifetime. She had the same self-aware posture that came from being told repeatedly not to slouch, the same tilt to her head that came from countless lessons in poise. Her hair was coiled into an intricate knot of gleaming curls at the back of her head, and her lips were painted a soft berry pink that complemented her sun-kissed skin. This was the girl who had organized Whimsies for her father with no idea what was really going on beneath all the lace and glitter. If I didn't look closely, I might almost have convinced myself that the last three months hadn't happened.