The King's Guard

13

MY brother’s ship, the Aracely—named after his wife—is the most beautiful ship in Joya d’Arena. It’s a tiny caravela with three masts and a small crew, but a deep hold for cargo. Its lovely lines are trimmed in mahogany, which the crew keeps burnished through tide and storm. The doors and rail are painted the deep red of sacrament roses.

Though it is still deepest night, the crewman on watch recognizes me when I come aboard. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of a woman and baby, but says nothing. I help Isadora to the captain’s quarters and beat on the door.

Felix yanks it open. He is shirtless, wild hair awry, but instantly alert. “Hector? What are you doing here?”

At that moment the baby cries, and Aracely appears at his shoulder.

Relief floods me. “We need help,” I say.

Lantern light glints against glass beads in Felix’s beard as he starts to speak, but Aracely shoves him out of the cabin. “Get out,” she says to her husband. “Get us something to eat and drink but knock before you enter. And you,” she says to Isadora and me, “inside now.”

She pulls us through the door and closes it behind us. Sumptuous rugs cover the wooden plank floors. A desk sits in one corner, bolted down, and a large bed is built into the other. It is unmade, and the silk coverlet hangs over the edge and drags on the floor. Lanterns hang from the ceiling. They sway with the ship’s gentle rocking, and shadows leap along the wood panel walls.

Aracely is a tall, large-boned woman with a strong chin and rich brown eyes like the mahogany of the ship that is named for her. She dwarfs Isadora as she leads her to the bed and helps her lie back. My sister-in-law is impervious to blood and stink as she pulls up the fine silk coverlet and tucks it around Isadora’s shoulders. “What’s your name, dear?”

“Isadora.”

“That baby’s less than an hour old, or I’ve never midwifed a child.” She pulls down the swaddling with a forefinger to get a better look at him. “Some women can be up and walking right after, but you were already in bad shape, yes? Has the afterbirth passed?”

“Yes,” Isadora says, somewhat stunned.

“Well, that’s one thing done right,” she says, and gives me a withering glance.

“I—”

“Hector de Ventierra.” She’s working up to a full sail of anger, which is not something I want aimed at my horizon. “You foolish, stupid boy, what in seven hells have you done to this poor—”

She stops because she has unwrapped Isadora’s face. The girl’s tears have dried up. Maybe she doesn’t have any more, but she stares back at Aracely, one woman to another, with nothing to hide.

“Who did this?” Aracely says. Her voice is soft, but it snaps like a sail catching the wind, and I realize that I have never seen her so angry.

“My father,” Isadora says.

“Lord Solvaño de Flurendi,” I add. “Keeper of the Fortress of Wind and portmaster of Puerto Verde.”

“I know who he is,” Aracely says.

“He is on his way to the seven hells himself,” I say. “I expect the cry to go up any moment.”

Isadora turns her face away, guilty tears pooling in her eyes. For some reason, I’m a little relieved to see them.

Aracely swears in a language I don’t understand, and then she goes to the door and yanks it open. Felix stands there with a tray of bread and cheeses and a jug of wine.

Aracely takes them from his hands and says, “We’re leaving port at once. Cast off and get us out to sea, quietly as you can.”

“Our cargo is only half sold, so . . .” He pauses, eyes narrowed, then says, “Setting sail for where, my dear?”

“Brisadulce,” I answer.

He nods but stares at me hard. “We’re going to have a talk, you and I.”

“Not until I’m done with him,” Aracely says, and she kicks the door shut and latches it. She turns back to me. “So, this is not your child, after all.”

I hope she doesn’t notice my rising blush. “No.”

She looks at both of us. “Can you say whose it is?”

“No,” I say, before Isadora can answer.

Aracely looks at both of us, at the baby, and then back to my clothes, which are soaked in blood.

The ship rocks as it pushes away from the dock. I’m thrown off balance and stumble, but Aracely shifts her weight and keeps her feet. Outside, oars dip and splash as the pilot boat tows us toward the harbor mouth.

“Do you have a plan?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m going to take both of them to King Alejandro.”

“No!” Isadora says, her voice panicked. “I can’t return to court, not like this. I have no desire to see . . . him.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Aracely says, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, and if this one, or anyone else, tries to make you, they’ll have to go through me first.”

Isadora grabs Aracely’s hand. “You mean that?”

“I surely do. You’ll have to do something. But it won’t be what any man decides.” She glances at me. “Not even if he is well-meaning.”

I don’t know if Aracely is referring to me or Alejandro—for she has surely guessed whose child this is—but it doesn’t matter because I’m so relieved to let her take charge.

“But what can I do?” Isadora asks.

“Are you educated? Can you read and write and do figures? Are you willing to learn?”

“Yes. . . .”

“Then you have a thousand options. In the temperate mountains around Basajuan, you could farm a small plot of land and grow grapes or dates for winemaking. You could run a tavern in the free villages east of the desert. In the southern isles beyond Selvarica, women keep their faces covered all the time. You could set up as a merchant there and manage trade for us and for other ships.”

“That—” Isadora says.

“Shh, you don’t have to decide now.”

“Where will I get the money?”

“You don’t have to decide that now, either. But we’ll find a way.” The baby stirs from its sleep and roots around her chest again. “Perhaps from the baby’s father.”

“I won’t ask for favors.”

“It’s not a favor he owes you.” She pauses. “What do you want to do with the baby?”

Isadora hesitates, gazing down at the baby, a softness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Then her lips press into a firm line. “That’s Hector’s problem,” she says finally, tilting her head at me. “I didn’t want the child, and he chose to save him.”

The cabin suddenly feels very small and crowded. At least she’s calling him a child now.

“Well, that brings me back to where I intended to start with you,” Aracely says, turning to me. “You are too young to act the father and raise this boy.”

“Not me,” I say. “But if you get me to Brisadulce, I know someone who wants him.”