Shadow Road: Book 1 of the Shadows Rising Trilogy

19. Soup Tureens and Ice Water

24th of Uirra

Laffa watched me with her black-bead eyes as I stumped from one end of the forward hold to the other.

I was going to go mad. I was expected to sit about twiddling my thumbs while surrounded by people who were missing whole limbs. I hardly had a scratch. Even the ringing in my ears was gone. It was unfair how unharmed I was, really, but that only made sitting down worse. There was too much guilt involved.

Earlier, it wasn't so bad. I helped clear away the rubble, swept the floors, scrubbed blood stains, changed bandages, and organized a makeshift new ceiling out of oilcloth for the hold so the winter air didn't add death-by-exposure to our list of casualties. But the Stryka had succeeded in crippling the Erristos as the sun went down and came alongside the Angpixen shortly before nightfall. Suddenly, there were more than enough able-bodied sailors to do everything, and I was told to 'rest.'

'Rest' in this case should have been translated: 'try not to think about how awful everything is, and how you could possibly have prevented it all.'

I didn't want to 'rest,' thank you, so I paced about the hold, worrying my lower lip. There had to be something a non-essential civilian of sound body could do on a ship to keep busy.

At that instant, Cook began swearing at the dishes because he was missing two more fingers than he had been yesterday. I stopped pacing. Perhaps if I asked nicely, he would allow me to help.

~~~

I balanced the tray on my hip, careful of the blue and gold enameled soup tureen, and tugged the collar of my father's coat closer about my face with my free hand. Then I ducked through the gap in the oilcloth that had been strung up in place of the door to the galley.

Cook's rough Tetton brogue followed me up the newly rebuilt stairs to the main deck, "Would'a please ask 'is 'ighness if I'm s'posed ta feed 'em wot're come over, or if Cready's already fed 'em all. An' tell 'im if they needs a feed, I needs more s'plies from the Stryka. Got it?"

"I got it," I called back, now knowing better than to ask him to repeat himself.

I rolled my eyes as I heard his instant, "'Ya got it' wot?"

"I got it sir!" I shouted smartly over my shoulder, daring to add, "You cantankerous old coot," under my breath.

I hefted the tray a little higher and made my way to the main deck. I peered around as I went up the stairs to the quarterdeck, half expecting one of the midshipmen to order me back down to the hold. No one did. Pierse was somewhere forward, standing night watch, and Arriankaredes and Mackney were both among the wounded. The quarterdeck was deserted. The only sign of life was the lantern light pouring through the empty frame that once held the map room door.

My feet faltered at the top of the steps, uncertainty making me hesitate. The Cook's orders had been clear. Or clear enough to get the gist, anyway. I was supposed to take the soup tureen to the Captain. This was proving easier said than done – a bit like working up the nerve to jump into ice water. I took a few deep breaths, walked in a small circle while telling myself I was being a ninny, then simply faced the map room, lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and made myself do it.

The Captain and another man were standing at the table, heads bowed over a map unrolled between them, their breath pluming in the cold as they discussed something.

As I crossed the quarterdeck, I noticed that the Captain had cleaned himself up a bit. The last time I had seen him, his close-cropped hair had been stuck up at odd angles, stiff with blood; now it gleamed platinum-silver, in striking contrast with the deep tan of his skin in the glow of the ceiling lantern above the table. As if the man wasn't intimidating enough already, his dark, navy-issue greatcoat made the pale blue of his eyes seem even more intense than usual when he glanced up at my knock on the jamb.