A Swift and Savage Tide (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 2)

Kit was uncomfortable with the physick’s description of an easy current that was pleasant and happy and easy to satisfy, like a small child with a sweet treat.

Added to that, the idea of small, invisible creatures flitting here and there made her itchy and in want of a bath—preferably a complete dousing in boiling water and lye soap, sending any small creatures to meet their maker.

“Why do I feel dirty?” Grant said, when they reached the building’s central hall again, and rubbed at his chest with a very discomfited expression.

“You are not the only one.” She stopped, looked at him. “Do you believe it? That we’re surrounded by little . . . things?”

“I don’t know enough to say one way or the other. But I certainly don’t like it.”

“You know what’s probably covered in small creatures? Horses.”

“I’m absolutely shocked you believe so,” Grant said, and sounded not shocked in the least.

They’d just crossed the creaking floor to the door when a man appeared from a doorway on the right. And a familiar man.

William Chandler was the Isles’ spymaster. He was a big man, like Grant, with a handsomely rugged face that had seen its share of fists. Kit hadn’t expected to see him in Portsea, and there were circles beneath his eyes, lines of worry across his brow. Gerard was leaning hard on all of them.

“Grant, Brightling,” he said, offering hearty handshakes to both of them. “Good to see you.” He looked at Kit and opened his mouth, but Grant held up a warning hand.

“Don’t tell her she looks pale or ill or fatigued. It makes her very cross.”

He closed his mouth, made an obvious mental pivot. “How is Commander Takamura?”

“Good man,” Grant murmured.

“He’s resting comfortably and close to insubordination, as always.”

“Good. Let me know if he needs anything.”

“I will,” Kit said, “and thank you for it.”

“Why are you here?” Grant asked him.

“The War Council has been called to plan the Isles’ offensive and defensive strategies. The queen asked me to ride down from New London to provide what information I could regarding the movements of Gerard and the Resurrectionists. We’re attempting to coordinate across all the ministries. Even Sunderland is here to prepare recommendations.”

Sunderland had led the Crown Command’s army on the Continent and had personally led the troops that defeated Gerard in Hispania. His strategic skill was undeniable. But so, Kit thought, was his ego.

“And how is that proceeding?” Grant asked, apparently hearing the same undertone.

“As well as one might expect when a handful of skilled, arrogant, and powerful people are thrown into a room together.” He rolled his eyes. “They’d like you both to attend them in the morning,” Chandler said, and shifted his gaze to Kit. “They’ll have reviewed your report by then and may have additional questions. Or orders, presuming the queen is amenable.”

Although technically part of the Crown Command, the Queen’s Own regiment reported directly to her.

“Who’s here for the naval concern?” Kit asked.

“Thornberry, unfortunately, although he’s showing a bit of moral improvement. And Perez. You may not have heard she was promoted to commodore for her efforts leading the charge against Gerard’s magical warship.”

“I hadn’t, but well deserved,” Kit said with a victorious smile. “About damned time she was given a flotilla.”

Kit had been fortunate enough to serve under Captain Perez on the Ardent and had been very glad to see the captain’s ship come to the Diana’s aid against the warship. Kit’s induction into the Order of Saint James was due, at least in part, to Perez’s assistance.

“Her Highness concurs. And I received your report of Auevilla shortly after you docked. Good work locating the ship—and La Boucher.” He said the moniker quietly, as if it were a devil he didn’t want to invoke.

“He was rather a surprise,” Kit said, then shifted her gaze to Grant. “And not the first of them.”

“An interesting coincidence,” Chandler agreed with a smile. “Or a bit of fate aligning so you could work together again. Which work I’m not here to disrupt,” he added, which kept Kit from thinking overmuch about “fate” entwining her with Grant.

“I’m also told your trip across the Narrow Sea was exceedingly fast.”

“Less than eight hours,” Grant said. “Half the time it might have otherwise taken.”

“Really,” Kit and Chandler said simultaneously. They both looked surprised.

Kit hadn’t done the math, but it made sense upon consideration. “I used the current the entire way,” she explained. “The wind was against us, and we needed to reach Portsea as soon as possible. It was . . . an experience.”

She could see the conclusion in Chandler’s eyes—That must be why she looks like that—but he managed not to say it aloud.

“We needed the speed,” she continued, “to keep Jin alive, and to stay out of cannon range of the Frisian man-of-war that fired on us.”

Chandler’s eyes changed now, and went cold. No longer a friend discussing another’s accomplishments, but an asset of the Isles who’d been set on by an enemy.

“You were fired on by a Frisian man-of war.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fury.

Kit merely nodded.

“That didn’t make it into your report.”

“The ship appeared after I finished the report. By that time, Jin was injured and haste was essential.”

“She was carried unconscious off the deck when we reached Portsea,” Grant said, and Kit’s gaze snapped to his. She saw the truth in his eyes, the blue of them like stones from some deep chasm in the earth.

“Then I’m doubly glad you’re safe,” Chandler said. “There’s been no formal declaration of war from Frisia; the Isles may take the lead on that point. I’ll update the council and the queen regarding your speed and Frisia’s involvement. Both will garner plenty of attention.”

“If we’re to survive what comes next and prevent Gerard from crowning himself again,” Kit said, “we must give more attention to Alignment—understanding it and making use of it.”

Everyone had a different perspective on the current—what it was, how it operated, how it ought to be used. They wouldn’t be able to wield it, much less protect against it, if they couldn’t discuss and reach an agreement on the fundamentals.

“Complicated matters,” Chandler said, and they all nodded.

Kit was still learning despite years of experience.

“Has there been other news from the Continent?” Kit asked. “Other developments?” Little enough information had trickled through to the Diana while she’d been on patrol.

“Not as many as I’d have liked.”

“What about Fouché?” Kit asked, thinking it best not to use his real name. She leaned in a bit closer, just in case. “It appeared Doucette had a map, shared it with a man named Sedley. Did Fouché find it?”

“Unfortunately, he did not,” Chandler said. “You’ll recall he was obliged to leave town shortly after you were deposited at his home,” he said, giving Grant a look.

Grant just looked at him. “I wasn’t going to leave them in the gaol.”

“I know; I know,” Chandler said, and ran a hand over his short hair. “I blame the Gallians.”

“It’s always the best course,” Kit agreed. “Fouché made it out safely?”

“He did. He attempted to intercept Sedley on his way out of town, but the ‘rat,’ to use Fouché’s term, had already left the nest. Fouché found nothing in the man’s papers.”

“Damn,” Kit muttered. “That map had seemed important, too.”

“It’s not the only concern,” Chandler said. “We ought to have received several more reports by now from those on the Continent, and the silence is concerning.”

“Who hasn’t reported?” Grant asked.

“In addition to Raleigh, Michaelson and Patrick have reported. It’s been several weeks for the others. One, we know, is dead. Cartwright.”

“We weren’t acquainted,” Grant said, “but I’m sorry to hear it all the same. You suspect he was killed?”

“The circumstances of his death were unlikely to be accidental,” Chandler said. “Not impossible, but unlikely.”

“How did he die?” Kit asked.

“Lightning strike, or so the local physick said. But he died in Hispania during the dry season, and there’d been no storm in the vicinity in weeks.”

Kit went cold with fear, and with possibility. It must have shown in her face.

“What?” Chandler asked.

“Lightning, or Doucette?”

That had the color draining from his face. She was having that effect on people this week.

“That’s a terrifying question.”

“You are not the only one terrified,” she said.

“Marcus Dunwood was captured,” Grant said. “Cartwright killed, and others haven’t been reporting. That’s a concerning pattern.”

“Also terrifying,” Chandler agreed.

A door opened nearby, and a woman in a crisp red uniform peered out, looked around, then beckoned for Chandler.

“It seems I’m needed,” he said, and shook their hands again. “In the course of your travels, should you need to assure yourself of someone’s alliances, offer ‘Ut myrkri, solas.’ ”

Kit translated from the old language. “ ‘Of darkness, the light’?”

“Out of darkness, the light,” Chandler said.

Kit thought of this morning’s dawn, of the light she’d waited so long to see, to finally strike darkness from the Diana’s path and reveal Portsea waiting. Out of darkness, the light, she thought again, and wished she’d known the mantra the night before.

“It’s a challenge phrase,” he continued. “The correct response is ‘Ut lyga, firinn.’ ”

“Out of lies, truth,” Grant concluded, and Chandler nodded.

“Only a select few know it. Should you need to verify if someone has a connection to me, and a loyalty to Her Highness, you can recite the challenge and see if they respond.”

The woman called for him again. “I’m sure we’ll speak again while you’re in town. Where are you staying?”

“The Pig & Pheasant.”

“A reputable establishment,” Chandler said. “If I may be so bold.”

“We are on the edge,” Kit said when Chandler strode away. “Not yet committed. And that is a very dangerous place to be.”

“You know what we ought to do about it?”

She was thinking about military strategy when she asked, absently, “What?”

“Food.”

She looked up at Grant. “Pardon?”

“We should have a meal. And perhaps ale in great quantities.”

“I don’t have time for food or ale. I’ve got to . . .” She trailed off as he looked at her, realizing she had nothing to do until her meeting with the council. There’d be no orders until then, and as much as she might have enjoyed it, staring at Jin would not make him heal faster.

“Well,” she said lamely.

“Exactly. You’ve a few well-deserved hours of rest, and I wager you haven’t eaten anything since you boarded the Diana yesterday.”

He was right. The tea she’d guzzled had helped with her headache, but now that she’d assured herself Jin was safe and her orders had been sorted—or the timing of them, anyway—her hunger returned with a vengeance.

“I’ve not,” she said. “And I could do with a meal.” They’d invite more gossip; that didn’t concern her overmuch, but she couldn’t say the same about him. “But if we go together . . .”

“Then the denizens of Portsea will believe we enjoy each other’s company, which is often true.”

“Often,” she said.

“Unless you’re being stubborn.”

“I’m simply knowledgeable.”

“And impetuous.”

“I prefer brave,” she added with a smile as they pushed outside.

“I don’t suppose you feel the need for a chaperone?”

Kit snorted. “No. I was concerned for your reputation, not mine. You’re a soldier in a sailors’ town. You’re the one who should worry.”

But she had a task to attend to first. She led him to Portsea’s pretty main square, where an enormous anchor had been hoisted upright as a symbol of the city’s role as a primary Crown Command port. A border of sea lilies bloomed pale blue and green, and a line of white roses, each blossom big as her outstretched hand, spiraled around a thick obelisk of rough-cut white stone. Atop that a smaller, triangular stone that was roughly the shape of a sail—or the tooth of a shark.

tiva koss had been carved into the stone’s front, and offerings had been placed on its top: flowers, shells, feathers, bits of coral and driftwood, sea-smoothed pebbles. A string marked by bits of faded and knotted fabric had been tied around it, and the corners were marked by beeswax candles. It was a memorial—tokens left by friends and family for those who’d died at sea, currency they might use in the world beyond. And it was a kind of shrine—tokens left by sailors for the gods, in hopes their own skies would be fair.

Kit pulled a gold coin from her pocket, placed it on the pedestal. And with her fingers still touching stone and gold, she offered up a silent prayer for those who’d sailed with her before, those who’d sail with her again, and those already lost to the deep.

She stepped back, linked her hands behind her, and gave the monument—and the sailors it stood for—another moment of silence. Then she nodded at Grant.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s find the tipple.”

They crossed the road, barely missing the steaming pile left behind by the enormous monster that clomped down the lane.

“They leave their waste right in the middle of the road,” Kit murmured, “and everyone is fine with it.”

“You’ve quite a grudge.”

“Don’t be fooled, Grant. They’ve the grudge against us. And who wouldn’t, after being shackled to carriages and made to haul us around for centuries.”

“You have a point.”

“I often do. Now,” she said, “we’re to the Whistle & Thistle.”

“I presume that’s a pub or tavern, and not the name of a lark’s den.”

“Tavern,” Kit confirmed. “Larks aren’t nearly so subtle.”

“Good. I need a break from the Pig & Pheasant, if I may be so bold.”

“I’ll give you a gold coin to never say that phrase again,” she said, and led them toward the building.

The Whistle & Thistle, marked by the wooden sign bearing a carved flower above the door, was situated in a plaster and timber building not unlike the ones she’d seen in Auevilla. But unlike those, this building was original Islish—and smelled of hundreds of years of stale beer and woodsmoke. It was also loud and lousy with sailors.

Kit adored it and tried to visit whenever she found herself in Portsea.

The main room was wood, forward to stern, with tables and tankards and jostling sailors. She and Grant moved through bodies, looking for an empty table. Two young lieutenants in uniform walked toward them, doffing their hats to her as they passed.

Kit found a small one being relieved of its duty by two women in uniform, and they took the benches still warm from their prior occupants. Kit signaled the woman running tankards of ale to and from thirsty patrons.

“They stare at you,” Grant said.

“Who stares at whom?” Kit looked around, half expecting to see gendarmes or other rivals.

“The other sailors stare at you as you walk by.”

She snorted. “Because I am an officer. As a general rule, sailors believe captains are either their greatest saviors or devils in human form, depending on their prior berths.”

“No, Kit. That’s not at all why they look at you.” His smile was warm and inviting, and food wasn’t the only thing she desired in that moment. But basic needs must be met.

“What do they serve here?” He glanced around at the walls, which bore the heads of horned animals no longer attached to their torsos, presumably to their chagrin.

“Mutton, meat pies, and mutton. And you should stay away from the mutton.”

“A small but discerning menu,” Grant said, as one sailor drew another across a tabletop, threatened him with a fist.

“There’s nothing quite as atmospheric as a table in a sailors’ grog house,” Kit said. The sailors took their fight to the floor, began tussling. “Are soldiers this entertaining?”

“There’s some resemblance,” Grant said, as ale was deposited on the table, coins exchanged, meat pies ordered. He took a sip. “The ale is . . . strong.”

“Sailors,” Kit said by way of explanation. “We’re used to the drink, so ale’s as good as mother’s milk.” She hadn’t been certain if her stomach would allow it, but she found the bite appealing.

She took another sip, watched the sailors wrestle with moves that were of questionable morality but great amusement. And realized she felt almost completely happy. Jin was healing, which gave her relief; Chandler was here, which gave her comfort. And she’d kissed Grant, which put butterflies in her belly, just as her beloved penny novels predicted would happen.

Almost completely happy. Because Chandler’s news, and the looming threat of war, were weights around them.

“You’re tapping your foot,” Grant said.

She stopped, unaware she’d been doing it at all. Another habit she’d have to watch.

“Magic,” she said generally.

“Ah. Yours, Doucette’s, or the physick’s?”

He’d come to know her well, and she was slightly unnerved by that. And . . . pleased. “All three, I think. Doucette’s magic was so beautiful, Grant. Blue and green mixing together, a fog of dancing color. I’m not explaining it very well; I’m still a bit in awe of it.”

“But?” he prompted.

“But then I saw what it could do. I watched the magic snatch at that man—claw at him—and now I think we’re right to be hesitant.”

Meat pies were placed in front of them, golden and steaming, on thick plates of chipped blue stoneware. They thanked the servant, and Kit waited until the woman had left them again.

Kit put her napkin in her lap. They cut into their meat pies in silence, took bites of steaming, flaky pastry and chunks of beef. She still wasn’t sure she felt well enough for food, but knew her body needed it. So she’d go through the steps.

“It’s not a Queenscliffe pie,” Grant said, “but it’s respectable.”

It was more than respectable, Kit thought, although Queenscliffe pies were delicious. It was warm and well spiced, and she began to settle.

“But,” she continued, “while I’ve been working to accept the idea that using magic more than we’ve done is a necessity, I still have doubts. Gerard and his ilk have no qualms about using it, manipulating it, and unless we’re willing to offer up the Continent, we have to be willing to use it, too. But magic is not our friend, Grant. Not to humans, not to the Isles. The physick said we should listen to it, as if we’re friends and companions, but I don’t think that’s right, either.” She looked up at him. “And I wonder if it’s our enemy.”

“No.”

She lifted her brows. “You’re so certain?”

“How old are you?”

She plucked a flake of pastry from her plate, crunched it. “Old enough that a gentleman wouldn’t ask.”

“Old enough that you’ve known of your Alignment for, what, a dozen years?”

“A few more than that,” she said. “But close enough.”

“Did it ever feel like your enemy?”

Kit opened her mouth, closed it again. “No. It feels like itself.”

“I’m not Aligned. But from what I’ve heard and seen—including the Aligned officers with whom I served in war—magic is not sentient, and it does not pick sides. It simply is—much in the same way that a ship might be.”

“The Diana will only ever serve right and goodness,” Kit muttered.

“I’ve no doubt of it,” Grant said. “But if she was led by a less . . . particular . . . captain—”

“Watch it,” Kit warned.

“—she could be used for evil, too. So perhaps the problem isn’t the magic and has never been the magic. And what you saw in Auevilla wasn’t about the magic.”

“It was Doucette. Doing something”—she searched for a word—“untoward with it.”

Grant nodded. “He should have suffered for that,” he said, and looked about the room as drinks and more than one punch were exchanged. “But you said there were no scars.”

“Not that I could see.”

Grant swore. “Magic used with impunity. That’s the real threat.” He turned back to her, put his hands on hers. “I hadn’t thought to ask about your scars. And I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t tell me you carried me from the ship.”

His eyes met hers, and for a long time, they simply looked at each other. “You can owe me for that one. And carry me when I need it.”

“Deal,” she said, and they finished their pies, sipped their ale.

“Your sisters are well?” Grant asked.

“My last letter from Jane said so. I’m hoping there will be more at the inn. How is your brother?”

Grant’s brother, Lucien, wasn’t unlike Raleigh’s version of the Beau Monde, albeit without the funds. But he’d agreed to take responsibility for their family estate, Grant Hall, near the village of Queenscliffe.

“He is . . . adjusting,” Grant said, with no little humor. “He prefers mathematics of the gambling variety, and is finding no enjoyment in ledgers and tenancy calculations. But it will be good for him.”

“I imagine the Spiveys are glad to have him home.” They were Grant’s housekeeper and butler and took great pleasure in keeping the estate trim and tidy while the master was away.

“They enjoy having someone to care for—other than Sprout.”

Sprout was Grant’s little white dog, a small thing with an outsized personality and a great love of its master.

“Captain Brightling!” someone called out.

“Prepare yourself,” Kit said, as a bevy of sailors—all of them hers—surrounded the table.

“Watson, Sampson, Simon,” she said to the three of them. “You appear to be enjoying your leave.”

“Glad we’re here, aren’t we?” Watson said brightly, and threw an arm around Sampson’s shoulders. “And now that the captain’s here, I’m sure she’ll sport us a round.”

It was the tradition, so Kit pulled coins from her pocket, put them on the table. “On me,” she said, to the cheers of her crew. Seeing the admission as an invitation, they pulled up chairs.

Grant’s lips twitched with amusement as chairs squeaked across wood floors. “We are destined, it seems, for constant interruptions.”

Kit lifted her glass. “Every ship is a family. Never by birth, and rarely by choice. But a family all the same.”

“You are a filthy cur and a cheater.”

A family, of course, that was occasionally dependent on who won at indigo, a favorite card game of sailors and soldiers alike.

Lieutenant Watson watched, disgust etched in her features, as Sampson slid a pile of coppers across the table to his waiting stack.

Sampson’s smile was thin and satisfied. “An expert doesn’t need to cheat.”

Her sailors were absolutely foxed. She and Grant had partaken of much less ale, but even Kit felt warm and relaxed.

“Sampson,” Simon said, “don’t make me lock you in the bursar’s house again.”

“And on that disturbing note,” Kit said, rising from the table, “it’s time for me to return to the inn. We meet with the War Council tomorrow.”

That had a sobering effect on the proceedings but didn’t keep Simon from dealing a new hand of cards into the four stacks a game of indigo required.

“We’ll be sailing soon?” Watson asked, her voice now grave.

“Soon enough,” Kit said. “So enjoy your leave, but do get some sleep.” She gave them each a narrowed eye. “And no locking anyone in the bursar’s house—or being locked into it,” she added for Sampson particularly.

She and Grant walked outside, the sudden vacuum of noise a sharp contrast to the noisy carousing of sailors in port, the air considerably fresher.

“That was quite an experience,” Grant said.

She looked up at him, not entirely certain if he was being sincere, or if his Beau Monde sensibilities had been offended by the disreputable chaos. But there was amusement in his face. And as they crossed the road, nearly silent at this dark hour, his fingers just touched hers. It was invitation and caress, and she gave her answer, linking her fingers in his.

He squeezed, stroking his thumb across hers as they returned to the inn, hand in hand.

A servant girl curtsied as they entered, the inn mostly empty and quiet.

“Mail for you, sir and ma’am,” she said, and passed out the letters sent to each of them, following through some undoubtedly circuitous course to end up in Portsea.

Kit took the sealed papers and small parcel and had to work not to tear off the ribbon of the latter while there in the inn’s parlor. These were the first letters she’d received since setting sail from New London weeks ago, and she was eager for news from home. But she’d enjoy it more—hearing from Jane and Hetta—if she was relaxed and comfortable, and she knew relaxation and comfort would be rare in the coming weeks. War provided little enough of either.

“Thank you,” she said, and looked up at Grant. He could probably see the yearning in her face.

“Go read your letters,” he said with a smile, and held up his packet. “I’ve some of my own. Thank you for a very pleasant evening.”

“And to you, Grant.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

They parted and she could still feel the tingling of his hand in hers.

She went back to her bedroom, removed her uniform, and washed her face and hands, and when she’d settled in the small bed with blanket and night shift, she opened the paper parcel.

Inside, she found three new penny novels—two romances and a very Gothic-looking mystery—a pair of rather poorly knitted mittens, a small box, and a letter from her sister Jane.

My dearest Kit:

You’ve left me again in a House of very loud Girls, and I shall never forgive you—unless you respond to this missive as soon as you receive it and advise me of all the News from the Continent and the Diana. I understand Sunderland will lead a War Council. Of course, I demand you advise me Immediately that you are safe—or as safe as it’s possible to be when one is an Adventurous Sea Captain.

Are there developments in Artillery? In rifles? I believe I’ve found an alternative to Powder which is less prone to accidental Explosions and which should be very Useful to the Crown Command—but neither Mrs. Eaves nor Hetta allows me to conduct my experiments in the house. I only charred the single Wall, but they’ve relegated me to the Potting Shed, which is a Very Unfair result.

Hetta receives Letters often, and while she remains as cheerful as Mrs. Eaves will permit, I believe she worries. Astrid worries, too. She’d ordered a new Dress from the Modiste and it may not arrive until after the Appleton ball, which is the talk of the Town, if not of Brightling House. Most of us, I’m Glad to say, have more important things to Mind than the length of hems and the appropriate number of buttons on a glove. Please imagine me rolling my eyes with Great Exhaustion.

That was easy enough to do. Astrid intended to use her considerable beauty to secure a wealthy husband and comfortable life, and gave little thought to anything else.

I’ve enclosed letters from the twins for your amusement. I’ve also—

The rest of the words in that sentence were covered by a smear of something brown. Jane’s plucky handwriting continued beneath it:

My dearest Sister, I regret to inform you that our newest addition, dearest Louisa, has snatched one of the Pistachio Nougats I’d intended to send you. And then used one of her chocolate-smeared digits to muss my Paper. She says Hello and be kind to Cook.

Kit, indefatigable even in the face of maritime danger, nearly squeaked. She opened the small box and found five half-melted, half-squashed pistachio nougats inside. They looked, unfortunately, not entirely unlike the pile she’d encountered in the road.

And it fazed her not at all. “Thanks to the gods,” she said, and ate the entire box.