Shadow Road: Book 1 of the Shadows Rising Trilogy

33. Still Miss Westerby

32nd of Uirra, Continued

I finally got to meet the illustrious Lieutenant Penweather this evening.

Arramy had put him in charge of the carpenters and deckhands that had been helping with repairs on the Angpixen. He hadn't been aboard the Stryka often, but he and the other Navy crewmen had been called back over after the storm.

I walked into the Loftman's Gallery for dinner to find most of the off-duty officers already seated and well into their first mug of ale. For once, their conversations didn't wane when I came in. Most of them seemed much more relaxed than normal, in fact, and I could only wonder if it was because of the Captain's speech.

Strange that something so simple could lift the spirits of an entire ship, but it certainly seemed to be the case.

Dinner was about to begin. Evers and Mannish had just finished placing trays of broiled redfish, fried potatoes, and little urns of dipping sauces on the table runner as I took my usual seat at the end facing the Captain. There was exactly enough for everyone to have a serving of each, but no more.

Lieutenant Mannemarra came hurrying over to snatch the empty chair to my left, and immediately that familiar river of one-sided conversation began gurgling away: "Did you hear the news about the Rimrocks? I'm sure you did. You always know everything before the rest of us somehow. I think that's wonderful, really, that you're so smart. I'm not opposed to intelligence in women, although my views have never been popular among my friends. I'm quite the renegade back home. I say. Would you care for one of these fritters? Cook has outdone himself again."

I eyed the potato fritter skewered on Mannemarra's fork, and fought the urge to take it, turn it about, and introduce the man's tonsils to it. It would have been so simple. Just one good jab. But it wouldn't have done any good. The man could eat, breathe, and speak at the same time, like some sort of sentient sponge. I had yet to figure out how he did it, but I had seen it happen more than once.

Chewing my lip, I picked up a sauce urn and dribbled something red into one of my dipping bowls, absently wondering what it would be like to shove whole stacks of fritters into that constantly wagging mouth. Would everything disappear in a flurry of pieces like logs in a mechanical grinder? Or would they fill his cheeks till they sagged like a chipmunk's, growing, growing... pop!

I was being horrible. Mannemarra was awkward, but well-meaning and friendly. He also didn't seem to mind that I was there, unlike some.

Commander Kyro did a quick double take in the direction of the doorway, slapped the table and exclaimed, "Hah! Pay up, Gorson."

There was a grumble from the Lieutenant Commander, who started fishing through his jacket pockets for his money skin as Lieutenant Chalb gave a nod to someone who had just arrived. "Survived, then, Penweather?"

I glanced around to find a tall young man standing in the doorway, a bifold hat under his arm, side-shorn auburn hair gleaming in the light of the ceiling lanterns. If she had been there, Betha would have had another face to swoon over. Classically handsome, with the narrow, sloped nose and pretty eyes of a Lodesian aristocrat, Penweather looked almost as lordly as NaVarre.

His smile flashed just as easily, too, as he chuckled and shook his head. "By the skin of my teeth, Sir. The very skin. I'm glad to be home."

I faced forward again just in time to see the Captain's gaze flick from me to the Lieutenant and back. Then he took a long draft from his mug of ale, and sat back in his chair, his jaw briefly going tight.

There was only one empty seat left at the table, and the Lieutenant came walking over to pull the chair out for himself. Laughing hazel eyes met mine for a moment as he sat down across from Mannemarra.

Which put him directly to my right.

Mannemarra was suddenly very quiet, studying his potato fritters.

As well-meaning and loyal as the man was, that silence was still physical bliss. I closed my eyes and drank it in, reveling in the fact that I could think two of my own thoughts together. Perhaps I would be able to enjoy my dinner after all —

The Captain cleared his throat, then said, his voice gruff, "Miss Westerby."

I ground my teeth, my smile a beat too slow to appear as I brought my head up and looked at him.

Arramy lifted an eyebrow, a hint of dry humor hiding behind those pale eyes as he drawled, "I felt you should know that Lineman Mannemarra has very kindly volunteered to let Lieutenant Penweather have his bunk just so you will be able to remain in Penweather's cabin."

I didn't notice what Penweather's reaction was, although I heard what sounded like an "ah" of surprise. I stared at the Captain. He had done it on purpose. He knew what the rest of my evening would be like. I could see it in that barely-there smirk on his face when Mannemarra instantly burbled forth again, "Oh, it was an honor! Really, it was. And I would do it again if I could. It's a gentleman's duty to see to the comfort of the softer sex..."

There was more. Much more, mostly about how enjoyable it was to help others in need. I murmured a "Thank you" that I wasn't even sure he heard, and then made a conscious decision to go selectively deaf in that ear, focusing instead on what was happening along the rest of the table.

It was most unusual. Unlike past officer's dinners, conversation lit up again, with Lieutenant Penweather stuck squarely in the spotlight. After only a few minutes I could understand why. He was a witty taleweaver. As though a plug had been pulled somewhere, suddenly these men who had been glowering at each other only the day before were clutching their sides and hooting with laughter as the Lieutenant recounted his escapades from the Angpixen.

I even found myself smiling at several of his stories, especially the one about Finch's parrot flying around the ship telling the men to go clean the privy.

But I also found myself remembering the night I snuck into Arramy's cabin to steal the binder back.

It was clear that Penweather was the man I followed up the stairs to the quarterdeck – the one who always cracked jokes with the officer on watch. And while there wasn't anything dark or dangerous about that, it did remind me of something else. I sobered in spite of all the merriment, and my attention found its way to the Captain.

He was lurking there at the far end of the table, watching everything from over the copper rim of his alespounce, eyes a glimmer of frigid steel.

I realized then what had been prodding at my thoughts since Penweather arrived. Arramy had called me Miss Westerby.

He might have given his crew a grain of hope with his speech that morning, but he hadn't really given them the truth. Not all of it. There were still secrets they didn't know. I couldn't let my guard down with these men any more than I could trust the survivors in the hold.

The laughter at the table faded to a dull roar, all the warmth and hilarity losing its brilliance even while Penweather continued to string mile-long sailor's yarns, and the men kept cackling like loons. Even Mannemarra burst into boyish giggles, his skin flushing a shade of pink that clashed with his flaxen hair.

Strangely dizzy, I looked around at all of them, seeing faces I had become accustomed to, faces that suddenly had become empty masks, mouths that opened and closed, making senseless noise, their words tangling together.

My gaze collided with the Captain's. He didn't look away, and his glance slammed into me like a physical blow. I drew in an involuntary breath, my heart ricocheting in my ribs.

He didn't know who to trust either. 

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Alespounce: a tall, lidded tankard made of copper and oxhorn, traditionally used in the Ronyran Province, but adopted throughout the coalition.