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

Kit cleaned and dressed herself as well as she could in the watery light of dawn. Her uniform nearly matched Jin’s: fitted navy tailcoat over buff trousers; dark and gleaming boots; and the sabre. But there were epaulets on her shoulders, and the fading bit of ribbon pinned inside her coat. It was a pale blue silk with gold embroidery, and the only physical memento that existed of her foundling past, before Hetta Brightling had brought her into the Brightling House for Foundlings and given her a family.

She’d considered adding the small diamond pin of the Order of Saint James but thought the diamonds a bit much for the Diana.

She pulled a brush through her chin-length hair, pinched her pale cheeks to add color against her gray eyes. She wasn’t vain, or no more than an average woman of four-and-twenty, but she had her own role to play. The deck was her stage, and better that she didn’t look like she’d been dragged unwillingly from a dream.

When she opened the door again, she nearly ran into Cook—name and occupation—who stood outside it with a delicate cup and saucer and a dour expression.

“To break your fast, sir,” he said, and made a very poor curtsy.

“Early in the morning for sass, is it not?” But she was comforted by Cook’s reliability—and the tea. Hetta had instilled ten Principles of Self-Sufficiency into her adopted daughters. Number Six was, perhaps, the most important: There is always time for tea. It wasn’t really about the tea, of course—although every self-respecting Islesian appreciated a good cup—but the ritual.

So she took the cup and saucer with a smile and climbed the narrow stairs that led to the deck. The remaining wisps of her mental fog were cleared by the crisp breeze and pink glow of sunrise.

Kit looked up into the forest of lines, wood, and rigging that made up the Diana’s engines. She was a topsail schooner: 129 feet of oak and tar, with square sails on the foremost of her two masts. Everything looked trim and tidy.

Jin waited at the helm beside the ship’s large wheel with the Diana’s navigator, Simon Pettigrew. The latter, who had dark brown skin and shorn dark hair, wiped a smudge from his round spectacles with an immaculate handkerchief. They were forever getting spotted by seawater.

“Mr. Pettigrew,” Kit said, and sipped her tea. It was perfect, which was one of the primary reasons she allowed Cook, with his expansive use of sass, to continue to feed the Diana. That, and his liberal use of spices and herbs. The food she’d grown up with, while nutritious, hadn’t been nearly as flavorful. The Brightlings’ housekeeper, Mrs. Eaves, “didn’t take with flavor.”

“Do let us know when you’re ready, Captain.”

She sipped again, watched Simon over the rim of her cup, and drained it. She put the cup and saucer on the steering cabinet behind the wheel, atop the maps Simon had spread there, and straightened her jacket. “If you’ve been taking career advice from Jin, you ought to reconsider that decision.”

Simon grinned at her. “I’d consider no such mutiny,” he said, and pointed to a spot on the map. “Our position.”

Kit confirmed, nodded. “Let’s hear about the ship.”

They strode down the Diana’s deck, the ship now heavier with the bulk of the two eight-pound cannons installed at the gunwales before they’d left New London. A clutch of sailors stood near the foremast, including Tamlin McCreary, the Diana’s watch captain, the curls of her long red hair waving around her pale and delicate face. She nodded at Kit, whistled a shanty as the ship’s bosun, Mr. Jones, pulled off his well-worn cap with suntanned hands.

“Apologies, Captain,” Jones said. It was his job to oversee the work of the seamen. “Wells here believes he’s found the Fidelity.”

Kit looked at the young sailor, who she recalled had just reached sixteen years and hadn’t yet lost the knobby knees of childhood. There was sheepishness in his expression, an amulet for luck around his neck, and determination in his eyes. “What did you see, Mr. Wells?”

“Go on then, lad,” Jones said, nudging him with an elbow. “Tell the cap’n.”

“There’s a big blue ship among the brigs at dock, sir. Three masts.”

There were groans from the assembled crew.

“Every Jack knows the Fidelity is white as a Western whale,” another sailor called out. There were murmurs of agreement.

Gerard might have ordered the ship repainted to avoid easy identification. The admirals, the queen had thought, believed Gerard was too arrogant to alter his flagship. But it wasn’t the first time Kit had disagreed with the admirals.

Kit looked back at Mr. Wells. “Why do you think you’ve seen the Fidelity?”

“It’s got—” He paused, obviously uncomfortable, and looked at Jones, cleared his throat. “Well, Captain, sir, the thing is . . . It’s got a very wide arse.”

The deck erupted with laughter.

Jones bumped him hard with a shoulder. “Stern, boy. A wide stern. Apologies, Captain.”

“No apologies necessary,” Kit said. “And there’s nothing wrong with having a wide . . . stern.”

Kit extended a hand. Without a word, Simon pressed a brass spyglass into her hand. She extended it, sunlight gleaming against metal, and held it to her eye, swinging the lens across the beach to the docks. Then she scanned the forest of masts and rigging of the ships anchored there until she settled on the wide blue boat.

“On the end there?” Kit asked.

“That’s it, Captain,” Wells said with enthusiasm. “That’s the one.”

The harbor curved, and the ships were docked at an angle, so even at this distance she had a decent look at the ship’s lay. “Brig,” Kit said. “Three masts, square-rigged. I can’t count the guns, but more than a dozen. It’s decidedly the wrong color. And there’s no lion on the bow.” The Fidelity was known for its roaring-lion figurehead; this ship had none at all, which was unusual for a vessel of its size. And the lack made the bow look, well, wrong. Gerard had a thing for lions and symbols, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine him directing it to be removed to enhance the illusion.

She surveyed the ship thrice over while the crew waited in silence, anticipation building and putting a nervous energy in the air. When that review was done, she lowered the glass, offered it to Jin. “The stern,” she told him.

Her sailors remained silent, only the creak of wood and hemp cutting through the thick of it. After a moment, Jin looked at her, nodded. And there was a spark in his dark eyes.

“How many coppers have exchanged hands?” Kit asked, and sailors made busy—whistling, tightening lines, spit-buffing brass.

“Good,” she said, “as betting is expressly forbidden by the Isles’ Articles of War.” But she reached into her coat, fingers brushing the ribbon pinned there, and pulled out a gold coin. “Who said it wasn’t the Fidelity?”

After a clearing of throats, most hands were raised.

“In that case, I believe this goes . . .” She felt the building anticipation, and let it build. Much of sailing involved monotony, cold and damp, and staring at the empty horizon and willing something—anything—to appear. “. . . to Mr. Wells.”

There was a moment of utter shock, and then yells of victory rang out across the deck. Wells’s eyes were wide as Kit offered him the gold coin.

“We can’t be absolutely certain until we’re closer, and we can’t guarantee Gerard is still in port. But I’ve seen the Fidelity, and there’s no mistaking its . . . stern. Well done.”

“Thank you, sir. Just—thank you!” Before Kit could react, he grabbed her hand, pumped it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She turned her gaze back to the port. “Let’s go find him.”

Kit was impatient, and she knew she wasn’t the only one. Every sailor in the Crown Command wanted to find Gerard before he brought more death and destruction. But she knew finding the Fidelity was only the first step. With more than two weeks of lead time, Gerard might have abandoned the ship and could be hundreds of miles away. She forced herself to think slowly, methodically, and not rush to judgment or action.

They sailed in closer, staying west of the port to reduce the odds of their being seen—or considered a threat—by the Gallians undoubtedly watching the coastline. But that was still close enough for Kit to feel the shift of magic as it roped toward the shore. She stood at the bow now, eyes closed and hair flying about her chin, the salt of sea air joined by the scents of green things that signaled proximity to land.

She felt nothing different in the current here than she had a few miles out, nothing that suggested some magical experiment on the Fidelity or in the boats at the harbor. Of course, that didn’t preclude illegal activity onshore. Use of the current had been banned in Gallia, just as in the Isles, but the taboo was only as strong as the community mandated.

She wasn’t Aligned to land, but she’d see how far she could stretch her connection. She clenched her hands into fists, forced herself to follow the line of current through the water and into the liminal space where sea and shore battled for control. It was fainter here, and she had to concentrate to distinguish it from her own heartbeat. But it was there—not stripped away by some malignancy of Gerard’s—and didn’t seem obviously perturbed.

She opened her eyes again, nearly jumped when she found Tamlin standing beside her. “Good gods, woman. Have a care.”

“I was watching you,” Tamlin said. “You’re very entertaining. Your face scrunches up when you listen for the magic. How runs the sea?”

Kit often thought Tamlin’s mind was too nimble for her own good. “Thin, but even. Not bothered by Gerard.” Yet, she silently added.

Tamlin nodded, turned her face into the breeze. She was said to be Aligned to the wind, but Tamlin also seemed to experience the world differently than others. Whatever its origin, Tamlin knew the wind and the knowledge it carried better than any other sailor in Kit’s acquaintance.

“Anything in the wind?”

“Motes of something.”

“ ‘Motes of something’?”

Tamlin wiggled her fingers. “Motes. Like bubbles in the current’s path, aye?”

“Someone is touching the current?”

“No, that’s not nearly enough. I can’t feel any change when you do that. Using the current for something.” She looked toward the coast. “There, on land. Not great magic. Not Contra Costa,” she said quietly. “Just enough to make it flex a bit.”

“On land?” Kit repeated. “So much for the ban.” Who was playing with that particular fire, Kit wondered, and at what cost for the rest of them?

“Best way to ensure a person does something is to tell them not to do it,” Tamlin said.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t wrong.

Kit returned to the helm, told them about the magic.

“We could sail back to Portsea or to the blockade line,” Jin suggested. “Signal we’ve found the Fidelity and need more ships.”

Portsea was an Islish harbor town almost directly north of Auevilla; it was the primary port of the Crown Command’s naval forces. Dozens of ships were berthed there, protected from high seas by Wihtwara, an island to its immediate south.

Kit wished they had time to wait for more sailors, soldiers, cannons, but it simply wasn’t possible. “We cannot risk it,” she said. “If Gerard is gone, the firepower is unnecessary. If he’s still there, he’ll certainly run when the armada is sighted, and we’ll lose him. We have a chance now to find him, and we have to take it.”

“And if we find him?” Phillips asked.

“He has violated the terms of his release. We take him to Portsea.”

“Not New London?” Phillips asked.

“The captain doesn’t want Gerard any closer to the queen than necessary,” Jin explained.

Kit nodded her agreement. “We’ll begin at the docks. If he’s still on the ship, just as well. If he’s not, sailors will know more than anyone about where he’s gone. Since they’ll be speaking Gallic, so must we.” Kit, being a child of Hetta Brightling, was nearly fluent.

Jin’s smile fell away, and Kit knew the long-suffering sigh and parental expression. “I will not be leading the landing party,” he surmised. He didn’t speak Gallic.

Kit knew Jin preferred she stay safely aboard, minding the ship, while others faced the danger. But these were uncertain times, and she wouldn’t force others to take that risk. More, she trusted Jin more than anyone with the Diana.

In response, Kit reached out, squeezed his arm. “I need you here. She needs you.” She—the Diana, both ship and crew.

Then she turned her gaze back to the crew. “Who speaks Gallic?”

No hands were raised until Midshipman Cooper lifted hers. “I do, sir. Or enough to know what I’m about.”

“But does anyone else know what you’re about?” Lieutenant Sampson asked, and laughter rolled across the deck.

Cooper cocked her head at him. “At least, unlike you, they won’t smell me coming.”

More laughter and groans, and a friendly handshake between them. Cooper was new to the crew but was coming along nicely, Kit thought.

“I’m not interviewing a governess,” she reminded them, “but a sailor. Passable will do, as long as you can swear.” An essential skill for any sailor, to Kit’s mind.

Cooper’s smile was broad. “Oh, aye, Captain. That I can.” She threw out a curse that involved a man, a burlap sack, and a very dirty goat.

“Inventive,” Kit said with approval. “Fancy a trip onshore?”

Kit abandoned her uniform tailcoat for a shabbier version made by Georgina, one of her younger sisters. Kit had paid in contraband sweets usually barred from Brightling House, or at least the ones that hadn’t already been pilfered by her other sisters. Even Louisa, the newest Brightling and a former stowaway on the Diana, had been instructed in the art of chocolate thievery.

As for the coat, one never knew when a change of attire—or a costume—might be needed. The trousers would still be unusual—most women chose to wear the high-waisted dresses currently in fashion—but less so than her captain’s uniform.

She’d left her cabin door open while she changed jackets, was pulling off her waistcoat when Jin stepped into the doorway.

“May I?” he asked.

“Of course,” Kit said.

Jin came in, closed the door. She hung her waistcoat on a wall peg beside the tailcoat, then looked back at him—and saw the concern in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Kit pulled on the jacket, rolled her shoulders. The fit was awkward, as it should have been for a poorly made garment, but she could still move.

“This is dangerous.”

“It’s just a jacket, Commander.”

But that didn’t make him smile as she’d intended.

“I know,” Kit said, tone kinder now as she transferred her ribbon to the interior of this jacket’s lapel. “I don’t know what we’ll find, Jin. I don’t know if we’ll find Gerard, or his lieutenants, or an army amassing outside the city wall. But I’m the only member of this crew with the authority to do something about it.”

“Finistère was nearly a tragedy.”

She went still, looked up at him. She’d gone ashore in Finistère, too, that time with Watson, Sampson, and Grant, to rescue a heroic Islish spy being held by the pirate cabal known as the Five.

“If you’ll recall, we rescued Marcus Dunwood from Finistère,” she said. “I’d do nothing different if I had to do it over again.” Except find him faster, she silently added. Remove him from the pirate fortress and its filthy, waterlogged dungeon quickly enough that his illness could be effectively treated, so they wouldn’t have been forced to give his body to the sea. But there was nothing to be gained in dwelling on it.

“Aye,” Jin said. “But—”

She cut him off. “How many languages do you speak?”

He blinked. “Seven.”

“And how many of those languages are Gallic?”

“None,” he said after a moment, as if he’d had to pry loose the admission.

“And that’s why I must do this myself. If we don’t want to be labeled as spies, we must speak the part. I can speak Gallic—and act it, if Hetta’s teachings are to be believed—and that’s the best chance we have to find him. Needs must, Jin.” She cocked her head at him. “You’re terribly impertinent today.”

He brushed back his long, dark hair. “I miss my girls. It’s only been a few weeks, I know. But the time and distance feel longer now. We’re on the cusp of something, and it feels as if even true north has been realigned.”

“I know,” Kit said. “I feel it, too.”

He sighed. “And, if I’m being honest, I was truly hoping for some good Gallic wine.”

Kit’s lips curved. “I suspect I can help with the wine. And I’m going to do my best to prevent the war and keep us on the right side of that cusp.”

“You’ll need a story if you’re to play strangers jaunting around a Gallic town.”

“I doubt we’ll be jaunting, but I was planning on ‘sailors on shore leave.’ It’s simple and elegant, and we can both prove our sailing knowledge if necessary.”

“Not in those boots.”

Kit looked down. “These are Crown Command boots. The queen’s boots.”

“They’re impeccable. Which is rather the problem.” He narrowed his eyes. “Which, of course, you already know.”

“I am the captain,” she said, and opened her trunk, pulled out a pair of worn and marked leather boots.

“Been mucking stalls, have you?”

“Not recently,” she said, and sat down to switch them out. “But Georgina may have. She found them for me.” Possibly from the stables at the edge of Moreham Park, which stretched across Francis Street in front of Brightling House. Unlike Kit, Georgina Brightling had an affinity with horses.

Kit had a war.

“Twelve hours,” Jin said as she changed her footwear, “and I’m sending in someone to find you.”

Even without a segue, Kit understood the grim concern beneath his pronouncement: how long they ought to wait before assuming the away crew had been captured or killed.

“Forty-eight,” Kit said. “We may need time to make the necessary contacts.”

He just looked at her.

“Thirty-six,” Kit said. “But don’t send in a team. Sail back to the line and alert the fleet. Let them come.”

“Twenty-four,” Jin said.

“Fine.”

“And wine,” he said again. “As many casks as the boat will carry. And bread, if you can manage it. The Gallians do make a fine loaf.”

Kit made a little bow. “Shall we also bring cassoulet and petit fours to finish the meal?”

“Needs must,” Jin said, echoing what she’d told him. Then he offered a hand, pulled her to her feet. “I’m impertinent because I care.”

“I don’t report your insubordination because I know it.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be careful, as will you, because that’s who we are. And if the mainmast has so much as a scratch upon its well-tarred surface when I return, you’ll be reviewing the receipts for the next five voyages.”

He shivered. “Cruel, Captain. Very cruel.”

“Never forget it. Let’s away.”

They lowered the jolly boat, a small vessel stowed on the Diana’s deck. Kit assigned Mr. Sampson, easily the strongest member of the crew, to captain the boat. His eyes lit when Kit selected him.

“There will be no coin,” she said, and that smile went bashful.

“A sailor never knows,” he said philosophically. “Found a bit at the pirate fortress, didn’t I? Sorry, Captain,” he added, probably seeing the grim look on her face.

“It’s no matter,” Kit said. When the jolly boat touched the water, she pulled a gold coin from her coat, pressed it to her lips. “Dastes,” she said, offering a thanks to the sea in the old language, and tossed it overboard. Gold found; gold returned to the deep and whatever gods still lived there.

And, gods willing, luck in exchange.