Warrior Prime Page 2

  And she hadn’t been some tittering, blushing virgin. She’d known what she’d wanted and had made her expectations clear. Peyne had been hard-pressed to keep up with her.

  Whatever her name was.

  Peyne decided he was in no condition to attempt moving again. He rolled over, shut his eyes.

  Then the pounding.

  Peyne put his hands over his eyes and groaned. At first he thought the pounding came from inside his head but then realized somebody was banging on the door.

  The woman stirred next to him. “Stop that bloody racket and fuck off.” She pulled the blanket over her head.

  Peyne raised an eyebrow. Well then.

  The pounding on the door grew more insistent, and a voice on the other side said, “Lord Erlich, your presence at the embassy is required immediately.”

  Peyne thought he recognized the voice of the persnickety little deputy. “Mullen?”

  “Yes. The ambassador has men combing the city for you.”

  Peyne groaned. “I just got here. What could be so urgent so soon?”

  “Nevertheless. If you could come with me.”

  “For the love of Dumo,” the woman shouted from beneath the covers. “If you know this man, then just go. I’m trying to sleep.”

  “One moment.” Peyne heroically rose from the bed, brain throbbing with redoubled savagery. He circled the room, collecting his clothes. Tunic, doublet, breeches. He had to crawl under the bed for one of his boots.

  He dressed hastily, turned to the lump under the bedcovers. “Madam, unfortunately, as you’ve heard, I’ve been called away, but I wanted to assure you it’s been a profound pleasure—”

  “Just go!”

  Ah.

  “But I just got here.” Peyne held both sides of his head, trying not to groan.

  He sat at a table with Ambassador Korick on the embassy’s upper veranda. The ambassador sipped tea, a local brew, strong with an aroma of citrus.

  “These things happen.” Korick sipped again.

  “I’d hoped to see something of the city after coming all this way,” Peyne said.

  “I think you saw quite enough last night,” Korick said.

  “The expatriate quarter,” Peyne corrected. “I didn’t even meet any Fyrians.”

  “Nevertheless,” insisted the ambassador.

  Mullen arrived and handed Peyne a cup filled with some sour-smelling liquid. “One of the old women who works in the kitchens says this will help. Some home brew concoction.”

  Peyne sniffed the drink, grimaced. “Is it safe?”

  Mullen shrugged. “I doubt it could make you feel any worse.”

  A fair point.

  “Don’t sip,” Mullen told him. “You’re supposed to guzzle it all in one go.”

  Peyne saluted the two men with the cup. “Bury me someplace with a nice view.”

  He tilted the cup back and drank it all down as instructed. The brew tasted like rotten fruit.

  He belched. “Oh, sorry. Excuse me a moment, will you?”

  Peyne pushed back from the table, turned away, and leaned against the railing overlooking the embassy courtyard. He belched several more times. The taste was like death, but he had to admit he did feel somewhat better.

  He looked down into the courtyard. Two Fyrian servants carried a trunk across the cobblestones and loaded it onto the back of a carriage.

  Peyne pointed. “That’s my trunk.”

  “Yes,” Korick said. “We had it brought down from your room.”

  “It was just taken up to my room,” Peyne said. “I haven’t even seen my room. For Dumo’s sake, I just got here.”

  “So you keep saying,” Korick said. “But there is no time to lose. I’ve already booked passage for you on a trader ship. It won’t be quite as luxurious as the royal envoy ship that brought you, I’m afraid.”

  “Delightful.”

  “The ship needs to sail with the tide in the next hour, which means you need to go in the next few minutes,” Korick said. “Therefore, I’m going to need you to pay attention. I can’t commit anything to writing, but this message must be carried to his majesty.”

  Peyne pouted. “I still don’t see why it can’t wait a few days.”

  “Lord Erlich!” The ambassador drew himself up, back stiff. “I appreciate you are the king’s friend. Indeed, it’s why you were chosen as envoy. It needed to be somebody the king trusted. But I am his majesty’s ambassador to Fyria. I decide what can wait and what is urgent. You will follow my instructions to the letter. Is that clear?”

  Peyne held up a placating hand. “Okay. I know. I’m sorry. I want to help.” He wasn’t on vacation after all. His mission was serious. Fyria had been growing as a concern back in Helva the last few years, and the king was counting on Peyne. He couldn’t foul this up.

  Korick cleared his throat. “Very well.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice and said, “What do you know about ink mages?”

  One of the officers screamed at them to get their asses up the gangplank.

  “That tone doesn’t bode well for a pleasant voyage,” Peyne shot back.

  The officer on deck made an exasperated gesture, then turned away. Peyne told the servants to take his trunk aboard and find his cabin.

  He paused to look at the ship. It wasn’t new and sleek like the one that had brought him here. It was a fat tub meant to haul cargo a long distance in no particular hurry. Two tall masts and the old-fashioned square sails. Peyne was no nautical expert, but he’d been given to believe shipbuilders had favored the triangular sails in recent years. Well, she seemed seaworthy enough at least. Peyne sighed and headed up the gangplank.

  The deck was a tumult of activity. Sailors securing lines and hatches. Last-minute cargo being brought about by crews of men with block and tackle. Peyne had to step lively to keep out of the way.

  He stopped a skinny, weathered sailor with a crude mermaid tattoo on his chest. “Where do I find the person in charge?”

  The sailor pointed. “Boss lady’s there on the quarterdeck.”

  “Obliged.”

  Peyne climbed the steps to the quarterdeck and saw her standing between the ship’s wheel and the mizzenmast. A handsome woman, brown hair leaning toward red in a long braid down to the middle of her back. He suspected a good shape, but it was difficult to tell. She wore the blousy clothing favored by the locals, smart probably given the heat. Loose pants of a deep green fabric, bound at the ankles. Strappy leather sandals. A blouse of matching green fabric, bound at the wrists. The jeweled hilt of a short dagger stuck up from a wide sash around her waist.

  Peyne watched her closely as she berated a group of men clumsily loading some barrels. One had gotten away and almost flattened several sailors as it rolled across the deck. There was a fierce self-assurance in her voice that made her all the more attractive. Perhaps this wouldn’t be such a dismal voyage after all.

  She turned toward Peyne, approached him with a wry smile. “Lord Erlich, welcome aboard the Pride of Klaar. Another few minutes and I’d have left without you. I can’t afford to miss the tide.”

  “Yes, uh . . . yes.” He knew he was staring but couldn’t stop himself. He felt sure he knew this woman from somewhere.

  She frowned. “It’s me, you idiot. You spent last night in my bed.”

  Peyne blinked. “Oh? Oh!” Yes, he recognized the face now. He’d seen her before only in candlelight. In the full light of day, she looked slightly older than he’d estimated the previous evening, but striking with a spray of freckles across her nose. “You look different with your hair in a braid like that.”

  “Helps keep it out of the way while working. And you’d had quite a bit of wine, so I forgive your fuzzy memory.”

  He squinted at her. “You’re . . . the captain?”

  “I’m Emma Terrigan, and I’m the owner,” she said. “The captain works for me.”

  Peyne absorbed all that as quickly as possible, then smiled and said, “Well, I’m certainly glad to have the pleasure of your company. I was afraid it was going to be a lonely voyage.”

  Emma snorted. “Thanks. I’m good for a while. I appreciate your helping me scratch an itch last night, but you’re going to need to stay out of my way. This is work time. As soon as my crew finishes loading the olives and dates, we’re shoving off. I have merchants waiting in Sherrik, and I want my money.”

  “Ah.”

  “There’s more good news.”

  Peyne smiled tightly. “Do tell.”

  “I need to kick you out of your cabin,” she said.

  “What? Why?”

  “We need the cabin for someone else.”

  “That’s outrageous.” He tried to sound indignant but feared it came across as whiny. “His majesty’s ambassador Lord Korick made the arrangements himself.”

  Emma shrugged. “Too bad. In Fyria, princes outrank ambassadors, and this request comes from Prince Kha’narahn.”

  Peyne’s eyes widened. “Is he on board?”

  “Of course not. Important men don’t run errands. They send flunkies,” she said. “Like you.”

  “I think I liked you better last night.”

  “That’s them over there.” She lifted her chin toward the starboard railing on the main deck. “Those two. They’re the prince’s people.”

  “They don’t look like anything special.”

  “They’re traveling incognito,” Emma said.

  “If they’re traveling incognito, then why are you telling me?”

  “You’re still his majesty’s envoy. I thought you should know. But I do a lot of business in Fyria, so you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “If we could return to the issue of my accommodations . . .”

  “I’ve had a storage compartment cleared for you
.”

  “Is storage compartment nautical slang for luxury cabin?”

  “It’s a place we stored rope and casks of anchor chain oil,” Emma said. “It’s all the way forward. I’ve already had a crewman take your trunk.”

  “Well, thanks for that anyway.”

  Emma chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll settle right in. Remember, stay out of the way.” She winked, turned, and left to harangue the men loading the cargo.

  Peyne went belowdecks and made his way forward until he found his room, which was small. Very small. He was only a tad more than average height, but he had to hunch over slightly to keep from hitting his head. His trunk took up far too much space, and his bed was a pile of straw on a pallet with blankets thrown over it.

  No, he would definitely not spend any more time than necessary in here. The place smelled stale and oily. He opened the single, small porthole for fresh air. He checked his belongings inside the trunk. Everything seemed in order. In fact, since he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, nothing had been touched at all.

  Peyne eyed a bucket in the corner and was pleasantly surprised to see some thoughtful soul had left him fresh water. He stripped, splashed water around the best he could for a makeshift bath, and used a towel from his trunk to dry himself.

  He looked over the garments in the trunk. He would never admit to anyone else he was a bit of a clotheshorse, but he did admit it to himself. He liked to look good. The black outfit was his most dashing, but in this Fyrian heat perhaps not the best choice.

  So the brown breeches with the scarlet piping up the sides and the off-white tunic would have to do. He rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. He thought about the vest but decided to keep it casual. He left his rapier and dagger in the trunk.

  A vague sense of movement beneath his feet.

  Peyne looked out the porthole, saw the ship moving away from the dock.

  He slicked his hair back and went topside.

  Most of the crew had sprung into action across the deck or scrambled up the rigging. Sails were unfurled and caught the wind as the Pride of Klaar left the bay for open sea.

  Peyne spotted the two Fyrians looking back at the dwindling city. He joined them at the rail.

  “A beautiful city. I wish I’d had time to explore it further.”

  A tight smile and a curt nod of greeting from the tall one. He had broad shoulders and lighter skin than most of the other Fyrians Peyne had seen. His beard was too short to be forked, and his eyes looked dark and humorless. His midnight-black hair shaved close. A thin scimitar hung from his belt, and he seemed the sort of man able and eager to use it. He wore a simple blue tunic and breeches, but Peyne could easily imagine him in heavy armor.

  There was something else stuck in the man’s belt. At first, Peyne thought it was a dagger, but the object was more like a scepter except shorter, ornate, and brassy, with a carved metal globe the size of a peach pit at the top.

  The other Fyrian didn’t acknowledge Peyne at all, immobile, hood drawn forward to cover the face. The day seemed a bit warm to be so completely covered, but it was hardly Peyne’s business.

  “I’m Peyne Erlich.” He held out his hand.

  The man looked down at the hand and then shook it reluctantly. “Kayman.”

  He offered no last name, and Peyne didn’t ask.

  “Not exactly the most luxurious ship, is it?” Peyne said with a chuckle. “But at least we have good weather. A flat sea suits me just fine.”

  “I’m sure. If you’ll excuse me.”

  He took the other Fyrian by the arm and turned aft, walking away from Peyne in no particular hurry, but definitely away.

  The shorter one glanced back at him.

  The face took Peyne’s breath away. Mostly it was surprise. He hadn’t expected a woman’s face. But there was more. The face looked somehow strong and vulnerable at the same time, the eyes so haunted. Peyne was instantly captivated, but in the same moment, she turned away again, Kayman leading her belowdecks.

  Perhaps the woman was Kayman’s consort. He could only speculate. Kayman didn’t seem the sort to answer personal questions. Anyway, he should have guessed the man might not be talkative. Emma had told him the couple was traveling incognito.

  He looked around. Well, never mind. The sun was bright, the sky blue, and Peyne quite enjoyed the smell of the salt air. He spotted Emma and a group of officers on the quarterdeck, all facing away from him.

  Peyne climbed the steps to the quarterdeck, stood next to her. They ignored him, all looking silently back at their own wake as they stood along the rail.

  “So,” Peyne said, “what are we doing?”

  “Captain Arnol, this is Lord Erlich.” Emma gestured to a grizzled man next to her.

  The old sailor grunted and nodded, his gaze not wavering from the ocean behind them. He wore a floppy hat with a brim pulled low to shade his eyes. He was small but hard as if put together with sticks and wire. Bushy white sideburns curved down each side of his face, not quite connecting on his chin to make a beard. He smoked a stubby brown chuma stick, the smoke lost in the wind.

  “Good to meet you, Captain,” Peyne said. “Are we looking at anything in particular?”

  Arnol pointed.

  Peyne didn’t see anything at first, squinting. Then he spied it in the long distance behind them. A glint of white. A sail.

  “This is a common shipping lane, yes?” Peyne said. “Are we worried?”

  “No.” Emma shook her head slowly. “Not worried at all.”

  Peyne looked at everyone. These are some grim expressions for people who claim not to be worried.

  “Who’s got the best eyes?” Emma asked.

  “Teena,” Arnol said.

  “Get her up in the crow’s nest.”

  Arnol snapped a finger, and one of the junior officers scurried away to carry out the command.

  A minute later, Peyne saw the girl scrambling up the rigging, skinny and barefoot, ragged breeches cut just above the knee, her dark hair in a braid like Emma’s. She climbed effortlessly and was in the crow’s nest a second later.

  A few minutes passed, and finally Emma asked, “Well?”

  The captain barked something in another language that Peyne thought might have been Fyrian. An officer passed along the command to a sailor who in turn passed it up the mainmast.

  In a few seconds the answer was passed back in the same language.

  Arnol grunted. “Narrow beam and low in the water.”

  “Not a cargo ship,” Emma said.

  “No.”

  Word came down the mast again, and the captain nodded as he listened, face hardening. “She’s got a couple knots on us,” he told Emma. “Maybe three.”

  Emma squinted up at the sun. “When?”

  “About an hour after dark,” Arnol said. “Give or take.”

  “Pass the word.”

  Arnol nodded at the junior officer, and a low muttering among the crew traveled the length of the ship.

  “I can’t help but think that when you told me earlier there was nothing to worry about, you weren’t being completely honest,” Peyne said.

  “Precautions,” Emma told him. “When a ship appears out of nowhere, it always raises questions, but as you say, it’s a common shipping lane.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Watch and wait,” Emma said.

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  She shook her head slowly. “Not that I can think of.”

  “Then I’ll go get something to eat,” Peyne said.

  Since it was between mealtimes, all the cook would allow Peyne to scrounge was a strip of overspiced beef jerky and an apple that had seen better days. He ate with little pleasure, then made his way back to his cramped cabin, where he kicked off his boots and flopped on his makeshift bed.

  Peyne let his mind wander, but it didn’t get far, and soon he dozed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Something’s happening on deck,” Kayman said. “I’m going to have a look.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.

  “Stay here and out of sight,” he ordered. “Talk to no one.”