The Crimson Skew (The Mapmakers Trilogy) by S. E. Grove (2)

1

Hispaniola

SOPHIA AWOKE TO the sound of a woman singing. The voice was low and languid and sweet, as if the singer had all the time in the world; it sang of mermaids and silvery stars and moonbeams shining on the sea. It took Sophia a moment to remember where she was: Calixta and Burton Morris’s estate on Hispaniola.

With a sigh of contentment, Sophia stretched against the soft sheets. She lay in bed with her eyes closed, listening to Calixta singing in the neighboring room as she brushed her hair and dressed. Suddenly the song was interrupted by a shout of dismay and a thump, as if from a booted foot striking a trunk. “Where are my tortoiseshell combs?” Calixta wailed.

Sophia opened her eyes and smiled. Splinters of light were pushing their way into the dark room. As the protests next door became fervent curses, she got out of bed and opened the tall wooden shutters, revealing a small balcony. The sunlight of Hispaniola was blinding. Sophia shielded her eyes until they adjusted, and then she caught her breath with delight at the sight before her: the grounds of the estate and, beyond the grounds, the shining ocean. Marble steps led down to a long lawn bordered by bougainvillea, jasmine, and birds-of-paradise. A straight path paved in white stone cut through the lawn to the beach. The Swan, anchored at the private dock, bobbed serenely on the sparkling waters.

“Sophia!” Calixta called. Sophia reluctantly made her way back into the bedroom, where Calixta stood holding what appeared to be a billowing curtain in a shocking shade of fuchsia. “Look what I found,” she declared triumphantly. “This will fit you perfectly!”

“What is it?” Sophia asked dubiously.

“Only the finest silk New Orleans has to offer,” Calixta exclaimed. “Try it on.”

“Now?”

“It’s midmorning, you lazy thing! We have plans to make and people to see, and I insist you be well dressed for it.”

“Very well,” Sophia replied agreeably. Of course Calixta already has plans made, she said to herself, and of course she already has outfits chosen for everyone as part of those plans. Sophia had found on the voyage from Seville, across the Atlantic, that it was almost always better to let the pirate captain have her way.

She slipped out of her nightgown and let Calixta help her into the silk dress, which was indeed beautiful. Sophia examined herself skeptically in the tall standing mirror beside the bed. “I look like a little girl impersonating the famous pirate Calixta Morris. And I can barely breathe.” She reached for the shoulder strap. “I’m taking it off.”

Calixta laughed. “No, you’re not! We’ll do your hair properly and get you stockings and shoes. A little powder and orange-flower water. That’s all.” She gave Sophia a quick kiss on the cheek. “And you’re not a little girl anymore, sweetheart.” She turned to the doorway. “Yes, Millie?”

A maid wearing a black-and-white uniform stood in the doorway. “Will you want breakfast here or downstairs, Captain Morris?”

“Have the others woken?”

“They are all downstairs, Captain, except for your brother.”

“Still snoring soundly, no doubt,” Calixta muttered. “We’ll join the others downstairs, Millie—thank you.”

Millie left the room with a brief nod.

“Let me just get my things,” Sophia said, moving to gather her satchel.

Calixta stopped her, taking her hand. “You’re safe here, Sophia,” she said. “Our home is yours, and you have nothing to fear. We won’t have to bolt at a moment’s notice. You can leave your things in your bedroom.”

Sophia pressed Calixta’s hand. “I know. Thank you. Let me find my watch.”

Damask curtains, gilded mirrors, and delicate furniture upholstered in cream and blue: Calixta’s hand lay behind the effortless luxury. Sophia’s pack, satchel, books, and clothes—gray and worn from two Atlantic crossings and a perilous journey through the Papal States—made a dirty pile that seemed to have no place in the sumptuous room. “Got it!” She tucked the watch into a hidden pocket of the fuchsia dress.

“Down we go, then,” Calixta said. Not to be outdone by the fuchsia, she was wearing a lemon-colored silk with gold trim. She trailed a hand along the polished banister as they descended the wide marble steps to the main floor.

Their travel companions were in the comfortable breakfast room. Sitting side by side on a white couch beside the windows, Errol Forsyth, a falconer from the Closed Empire, and Goldenrod, an Eerie from the edges of the Prehistoric Snows, looked out at the ocean with rather dazed expressions. Sophia thought to herself, not without amusement, that they seemed just as out of place in the gilded mansion as she felt in the fuchsia dress. Goldenrod sat stiffly, her pale-green hands folded in her lap, her long hair wild and windblown. She looked like a tuft of grass on a plate of porcelain. Errol, his clothes even more worn than Sophia’s, rubbed the scruff of his chin, pondering the view. Seneca, Errol’s falcon, blinked unhappily from his perch on the archer’s shoulder.

At least Richard Wren, the Australian sea captain, seemed at ease. He stood in a wide stance before the windows, happily munching a piece of toast as he took in the view.

“I trust you all slept well?” Calixta asked, gliding toward the table, where fruit and pastries, butter and jam, coffee and sugar awaited.

“I can’t remember the last time I slept so well,” Wren exclaimed, saluting her appreciatively with his toast. “The most soothing sound of the waves, the softest pillows, the most comfortable bed. Calixta, I am afraid that once this search concludes, you will find me at your doorstep, an uninvited but eager guest.”

“You are most welcome,” Calixta replied, pleased.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Goldenrod said, rising from the couch. “It is wonderful to be at last on land and in safe circumstances. You and your brother have given us the safest of safe havens.”

Sophia had wondered, when she saw the Swan in the port of Seville, how Goldenrod and Errol would take to the pirates. Calixta and Burr were flashy and boisterous, while Errol and Goldenrod were grave and quiet. But to her surprise, after only a few hours, the four seemed fast friends. Their common bond with Sophia paved the way, and then, as they conversed, each pair discovered in the other the quality they most valued: loyalty. From there, it was easy for Errol and Goldenrod to find amusement in what they perceived as the pirates’ frivolities, and it was easy for the pirates to pardon what they perceived as Errol and Goldenrod’s incorrigible gloominess. The Swan’s pirate matron, Grandmother Pearl, who watched the unexpected friendship emerging among them over the course of their monthlong voyage, affectionately dubbed them “the four winds.” And Wren was like an ocean current among these four winds: warm and good-natured in temperament, he adapted to his circumstances. He could be loud and rowdy, and he could be grave and quiet.

“Agreed,” Errol said. “We should not stay more than a day—”

“I insist you stay a week.” It was true that two of the four winds blew much more forcefully than the others, directing them and anyone around them with merciless, if friendly, force of will. “I am only too glad that we can offer you safety,” Calixta continued, spooning brown sugar into her coffee, “when there seems to be so little of it to spare.”

A month’s worth of newspapers had been waiting for them the previous evening. Despite their weariness, the travelers had snatched them up, reading and exclaiming while Millie and the other servants answered the volley of questions about the embargo declared by the United Indies, the secession of New Akan and the Indian Territories, the acquittal of Minister Shadrack Elli in the murder of Prime Minister Bligh, and the declaration of war by the new prime minister, Gordon Broadgirdle. “What does the morning paper say?” Calixta asked.

“This thing they are calling ‘the Anvil’ appears to be making life difficult throughout New Occident,” Wren said.

“‘The Anvil’? Sounds like the name of a tavern I’d rather avoid,” she replied breezily, seizing a slice of pineapple.

Wren gave the pirate a wry look. “It’s an anvil cloud. A heavy cloud that precedes a storm.”

The previous night, Sophia had taken a pile of newspapers upstairs and pored over them before falling asleep. Though the political events dominated the news, the growing prominence of what the newspapers called “the Anvil” had intrigued her. “But they’re using it to describe any number of things,” she put in. “Weather disruptions that have been happening all month. Sinkholes, storms, flash floods, even earthquakes.”

“‘A second sinkhole in Charleston,’” Wren read from the paper he had picked up, “‘consumed Billings’s crossroads to the west of the city, and noxious fumes were reported emerging from the sinkhole the following evening.’” He paused. “And on the coast off Upper Massachusetts, the anvil clouds obstructed a lighthouse, causing two shipwrecks.” He shook his head. “New Occident seems to be experiencing very strange weather.”

“It’s very worrying,” Goldenrod said, her green brow furrowed. “So many unusual patterns at once cannot be coincidental.”

“Yes,” Calixta murmured. “Bad weather. Always annoying. Any important news?” she asked meaningly.

Wren glanced at the paper again. “Skirmishes in the Indian Territories, but they are described in only the most general terms.”

“I very much doubt the veracity of these reports,” Goldenrod said.

“Naturally,” Calixta agreed. “One wonders about the reliability of the sources, and I have no doubt that Broadgirdle is doing his best to shape what we do and don’t know. Where is my useless brother?” she asked pleasantly, and considered a slice of cake drizzled with honey. “We have plans to make.”

“I am here,” said a groggy voice from the doorway. Burr’s handsome face was still heavy with sleep as he staggered into the room. “I heard a rumor that somewhere in this fantastically overstaffed mansion one could procure a hot cup of coffee. Is it true?”

“Oh, poor thing. You were expecting it to appear at your elbow when you woke up?”

“I was, rather,” Burr grumbled, pouring coffee into a porcelain cup. “But you have trained everyone who works here to think of it as their mansion, and they are wonderfully independent thinkers, so apparently what I expect counts for very little.”

“You will feel better after the coffee, my dear neglected brother.” Calixta pushed a plate toward him. “Have some cake. We need to find a way to get in touch with Shadrack, and we need to decide on our entry point to New Occident, since all the ports are closed to us.”

“New Orleans, surely,” Wren said, sitting down at the table beside her.

“If the Swan can take us to New Orleans, Errol and I can take Sophia north through the Indian Territories,” suggested Goldenrod.

“Is that not too much of a detour for you?” Much as Sophia wanted their assistance, she was well aware of how every day prevented Errol from searching for his brother. Indeed, she was well aware of how every member of the company was there because of her, accepting risk and inconvenience on her behalf.

“We go as far as you do, miting,” Errol assured her. “Until we see you safely back in Boston with your uncle.”

“There is no safety to be had in Broadgirdle’s Boston,” Burr commented dourly.

“The Ausentinian map says we are to part ways,” Sophia said carefully, voicing the concern that most troubled her. “I know we have discussed this before—”

“You put too much stock in the divinatory power of those little riddles, sweetheart.” Calixta patted her hand.

“However much the Ausentinian maps may prove true in retrospect, we cannot plan to separate because they predict that we will separate,” said Errol.

“He is right, Sophia,” Goldenrod agreed.

“But they are not little riddles,” Sophia insisted. They had gone over this many times on the Atlantic crossing. “Everything the maps have said has come true. And I am not saying we should plan to separate. What I am saying is that we should use the map to anticipate what might happen and plan carefully.”

Burr suddenly looked much more awake. “Speaking of divinatory power,” he said, “that’s how we should get word to Shadrack: Maxine!”

“Who is Maxine?” Wren and Sophia asked at the same time.

“Yes, Maxine,” Calixta murmured. “That is actually a good idea.”

Burr sat back with a satisfied air. “Of course it is. I am only surprised you admit it.” He turned to Sophia. “Maxine Bisset. In New Orleans. We have known her for years—utterly reliable. A bit of a fortune-teller, which is why my sister turns up her nose, but she also runs the best correspondence—”

There was a shout from the other end of the mansion. Everyone at the breakfast table fell silent and waited, listening; they heard the anxious clatter of running feet, and then Millie’s voice calling, “Captain Morris! Captain Morris!”

Calixta stood up just as Millie reached the room, breathless. “What has happened?”

“Tomás has seen horsemen,” she panted, “coming this way along the road.”

“And what of it?”

“He was out repairing the gate. And brought this.” She handed Calixta a long, thin sheet of paper, looking rather the worse for wear from exposure to the elements. “They have been posted everywhere the last two weeks. But we thought nothing of it until now.” The group gathered around Calixta, who swore under her breath.

A fair drawing of Richard Wren occupied the center of the flyer. Around it were written the terms:

Reward: 2000 pieces silver

for the capture and conveyance

to authorities in Tortuga

of outlaw Richard Wren

“Why did you not tell me of this last night?” Calixta demanded.

“I’m sorry, Captain Morris.” Millie wrung her hands. “We didn’t think. I only heard you call him ‘Richard,’ and it didn’t occur to me—”

“How many horsemen?”

“At least thirty, Tomás said.”

“Too many,” Calixta said quietly.

“It is the League.” Wren’s face had gone ashen as he realized the Australian forces from which he had fled were so closely in pursuit. “They must be searching for me everywhere on the Atlantic, for they have no way of knowing I am here.” Everyone looked at him in silence. “The safest thing would be for me to turn myself in.”

“Absolutely not!” cried Calixta.

“Two thousand pieces of silver are terribly tempting,” Burr conceded, “and they would jingle most cheerfully in a little wooden trunk, devised especially for silver pieces, which we could shake now and then to remind ourselves—”

“Burr,” Calixta cut in, rolling her eyes.

“Only jesting!” Burr smiled. “Of course we cannot give you up—absurd. But we must leave, and soon.” He pointed at the tall windows. “I can see them cresting the hill, and they will be here in minutes. Though the staff are disconcertingly adept with sword and dagger, I think my sister would prefer to keep such confrontations out of the house. Very bad for the upholstery.”

Calixta gave him a smile full of warmth. “You can be so thoughtful, Burr.” Then she put her hands on her hips. “To the Swan, then.”

“To the Swan!” her brother agreed. “Friends, you have three minutes to pack.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then everyone raced from the room.