THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1) Read online

  "Winch them to the main deck. Brak, stay there and fix the lines. The rest of you clear space, raise the net and man the capstan. Look lively." On most days Van Reiver wouldn't have added the last two unnecessary words, but the groan of bored men denied afternoon entertainment pissed him off.

  "I'll send a man below for the Doc." Grimm suggested, reading Van Reiver's irritation. Van Reiver knew the man could arrange matters without him loitering underfoot, and nodded.

  "Fine. Take charge here and I'll send the cadets down to observe. See if they point out the need for chocks while I have my daily ear bashing."

  "Aye, sir!" Grimm feigned coming to attention as the gaggle of raucous seamen dispersed. Van Reiver shook his head and, after a last look to the survivors, forced optimism onto his face for the benefit of the quarterdeck.

  .*.*.

  Van Reiver ducked the spray off the upturned boat, chuckling at the curses from the seaman behind as he entered the dark of the larboard passageway. Ignoring the narrow three panel doors on either side, he swept down the dim corridor, and ran lightly up the short flight of steps from the officer's quarters to the quarterdeck, briefly clasping the scarferwood handrail as he went. He paused for a moment for a glance across the buff stern, over the flat orange waves that were now empty again, before placing his hat upon his head. Gathering his calm, he walked around the bulging sunjammer dome and past the aft mast, with its half-reefed lateen sail, and headed towards the captain. Medium height with a thickening waist, Bullsen stood straight in his customary place by the steer-board rail; blunt hands clasped loosely behind his back, feet spread exactly a foot apart as he glared daggers at the horizon. The faint breeze ruffled Van Reiver's hat in jest, forcing him to seat it harder onto his long dark brown hair hanging between his shoulder blades.

  "Are they all settled in, Mister?" queried Captain Bullsen in forced casualness, his eyes glowing an ominous red to Van Reiver from the banked light of the gem-crystal canopy. In sharp contrast, Bullsen's black hat remained seated on short grey hair, impervious to the gust.

  "Yes, capt'n. Both of our guests are in the wardroom. Doc' Robsin wanted a look at them, especially the gentleman. He appears not to be in good health." Van Reiver replied matter-of-factly.

  "We can hope, my boy, we can hope. What injuries do they have?" The captain sounded unusually terse, his tone excessively abrupt to Van Reiver's ears.

  "They both looked pretty far gone in the boat when hosting it aboard, sir. Particularly the older gentleman. I'm unsure if they have been at sea for a while, or a few days with insufficient supplies, or something else. He was unconscious and the girl barely awake from what I can see. Hence why I sent them to the doctor."

  "So, the young woman is conscious?"

  "As I said, sir, barely." Bullsen turned from the steerboard rail. Both snow-grey eyes looked at him. Into him.

  "I suggest, Mister, you go back and find out why they needed fished out of the ocean. If she is awake, the girl can speak. Given the rescue, Second Mate, she owes us."

  "Aye, sir."

  Bullsen peered harder, "Edouard, is something wrong?"

  Van Reiver shrugged, wrinkling his nose. "I've had an odd feeling since I saw the boat. Maybe I'm over-imagining things. Dammit, sir. Something feels off about them!"

  "I agree with it seeming off. This location is unusual for any shipping. You're a smart officer with a solid future afloat, which is why I asked for you from the tub Valmy they wasted you on, despite the misery of being a bored navigator."

  "Yeah, there have been several occasions in recent months where I wish I could trade back the dull ship and not watch my back so often for the expected knife."

  Bullsen's eyes widened in startlement for a moment—then he bellowed with laughter and wiped them with the back of his thumb. "A lowly position for a young noble can cause friction and frustration if they are of a mind to be undiplomatic in the service. Of course, Comace resents serving under you."

  "Other officers and cadets aboard do not have similar issues with Comace." Van Reiver objected, irritated with the meander of their conversation.

  "No, Edouard, some of us are older, have better rank or titles, or aren't worth the bother after they buy a commission, unless they need a good report to progress. With your family settling in Spires, even as successful merchants, you must have expected friction. Unlike the quiet Friscia of your parents to the east, us West Spires folk are more rigid in outlook. It is not the best trait in healing the rifts from the civil war. Many see newcomers—Central Spires, or outlanders—as profiteering from the mess. I'm not judging—so don't look hurt like that—as I am happy to spend my time at sea, away from the rancid futility of it all. I see the pirates as worthier enemies, with the Atlanteans too busy to interfere."

  "I hadn't expected so much from a subordinate over nothing." Van Reiver admitted, his frustration becoming embittered over the third mate. It was becoming more than a grudge, seeing Comace's smirk in his peripheral vision.

  "That is one of the most common problems you will face, Edouard. I appreciate I promised action, and we have trained hard and missed the skirmishes. We will have our time. So, cease bellyaching and get about your duties before I lose my pleasant mood. You are my second mate and navigation officer. Act it."

  Van Reiver blinked in shock at being snapped at in public, and breathing hard from the hurry aft, considered what Bullsen had said, and not said. Anger was building inside, but something also niggled in his guts. What? What was he missing? With a swift glance to see who was nearby, he played the hunch and uncharacteristically queried the captain as he was turning away.

  "Sir?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Do you suspect something is wrong in this neck of the woods, sir?"

  "I'm not sure, as we are only this westward as a favour to the Atlanteans. As we have seen no wreckage, or sail, I'm prepared to keep an open mind." Bullsen paused as though considering something, then asked, "Who did you have bring their boat aboard?"

  "I left the cox'n finishing up, I assumed you would wish for confirmation of the survivors' condition while we raised sail, sir."

  "Always the best way with Mr Grimm." Bullsen smiled, his expression and mood lightening as the frown lines flattened on his brow. The captain had great faith in the cox'n and had no shame in stating it. Inside, Van Reiver felt a twinge, and wished for a wistful moment they considered him with similar enthusiasm and not as a 'jumped-up Friscian bastard,' as he had heard through thin walls more than once in the officer's quarters. He feigned diligence as Bullsen continued. "I don't think his Highness would approve of us running into trouble with his prized cargo on his son's newest warship, never mind his fleet flagship. Now, get yourself below lad and see what has been going on with our guests. Post young Jimi outside their cabin. Use the young gentleman's one for now, for their convenience. You know what available accommodation we have. Do you understand, Mister?"

  "Clearly, sir." Concurred Van Reiver, surmising he had passed Bullsen's latest unspoken initiative test. He saluted the captain, who nodded a curt acknowledgement before resuming his pacing. Glancing back at Bullsen, Van Reiver grimaced. It was like watching an old wolf sniffing for prey while trapped inside a cage. They were the top predator on the seas, but something felt off. He could still feel it niggling, as though partly assuaged. It wasn't because they hadn't seen many poachers, it was something else. He stared at the sea and, sensing no immediate menace beyond the jolt of Gerad pushing Tryphon onwards with a growing hum, he shrugged and dropped two decks with light footsteps.

  2

  Van Reiver paused in the wardroom doorway to take in the oddest scene he'd yet witnessed aboard Tryphon. He couldn't keep a smirk from forming as he looked between the seated woman and his roommate. Commented upon by many aboard as being unreliable, the middle-aged Doctor Robsin looked efficient as he industriously mixed a spoonful of fine beige powder into a glass. He handed it to the exhausted youthful woman Van Reiver had seen looking damp and grubby when ass
isted by Brak onto Tryphon's deck. Robsin wrinkled his nose at the alchemical tang and squinted at Van Reiver.

  "Our captain asks how they are, Doc?" Van Reiver wiped away his smile as he quizzed the short-sighted old bugger, his voice echoing from the dark oaken panelling as he moved inside and closed the door.

  "Not as bad as they looked," said the doctor in his dignified burr, placing his hand against her peeling forehead. Unlike the affectation of many alchemists and doctors, intimating their lower gentry background of the northeastern highlands around Bodmin, he was the genuine article. Weathered by drink, more than the scrape of wind and scour of water. "They are dehydrated, with minor burns from the sea and suns, as you expect from a small boat. The gentleman suffered most from his pallor. Could be worse. Better would be nicer, but he's stable. That suits me."

  "Good. Any chance of him waking?" Van Reiver looked across at the older man, his thin bristle of moustache all but disappearing into several days' growth of grey stubble and sunburn.

  Robsin gave a curt head shake. "He's sleeping. Let lady nature take her course—time is the best healer."

  Van Reiver grunted, flicking his notebook open to a blank page and unstopped his ink. Simple acts to give his mind time to think. "Do you feel up to a few questions, Miss?" He assumed the general title with the hand on the naval issue blanket lacking a marriage band.

  Her heart-shaped face was comely, and shoulder length pale-brown hair framed large violet eyes. He filed away that she was well attired. A dark blue embroidered travelling dress seemed well made, but eschewed ostentation. A similar cloth to what his father traded to the nobility and the affluent in the principality. The only embellishment was pale blue stitching on the sleeves and bodice. Exemplary work at that. Albeit she looked the worse for wear from her days adrift, as though someone had dragged her through a hedge and hurled her into a busy harbour at low tide.

  "Your captain is quick off the mark." A husky voice from cracked and bloodied lips. Yet her mouth seemed friendly, and he imagined her lips would be plump and soft, were they not ravaged by the Tuvala Sea. Shuddering as she sipped, she pulled a face at the sour mixture and touched her throat as though it pained her. Van Reiver chuckled as she gulped the last two mouthfuls.

  "That is why the crew avoids going sick," he said. "They find his cure worse than any lurgy—" Robsin harrumphed and, ignoring a well-publicised prohibition from Bullsen, sat to nurse a sherry. A small sherry. "—as they think he poisons them." Van Reiver smirked. He'd no qualms about re-igniting their vendetta over the older man's habit of squirrelling sherry bottles away in Van Reiver's locked sea chest to escape Bullsen's wrath. Van Reiver had endured the last bollocking without complaint, and if there were a way of replicating the wax seal on the bottles, it'd be tempting to piss in them and teach the sozzled old bastard a lesson and maybe improve the flavour.

  "Edouard!"

  Van Reiver ignored Robsin and studied the woman. She was of average build and height, around five-foot-seven. He guessed she was early twenties when she cleared the tangle of hair from her face. Noticing his scrutiny, she forced a smile.

  "I am Lady Carla of Pallach. I must ask, though, does he poison the crew often?" Her fingers rose in a jerk, patting at tangled hair to appreciate her shabby countenance.

  "I can't say for definite. No survivor complains twice, though. I have to bunk with the bugger, so I'd hear the griping first-hand."

  "I don't have to take slander from snot-nosed brats," muttered Robsin, scowling. "Edouard, I'll be in the cabin and return every couple of hours." He downed his drink and left, clutching his small medical bag underarm. It probably had a couple of flasks in it…

  "Yes, sir, doctor, sir," Van Reiver chanted with a smirk, flicking a casual salute. Carla's eyebrows rose as the doctor clicked the door shut, then she stared at Van Reiver until he felt uncomfortable. "Yes?"

  "Read this, please."

  Van Reiver took the rumpled envelope she flicked out from the cuff of her dress and slid across the table to him. He cracked the wax seal and read. Blinked and checked the words said what kicked their way straight into his brain. Then read it again, studying each letter and space, then the stamp. "Is this for real? A baron? He is that important?"

  "Yes, my father is a royal councillor, his mission is confidential as are his duties. I require a few moments of your captain's time and our cases."

  Van Reiver heard the words, but his eyes looked down of their own accord. They'd run into the prince's spymaster in the middle of the fucking ocean by accident? Fuck, Bullsen would go serpent shit when he read the letter, and it was as far back to Tregallon as it was to continue to the armada marshalling point they were due at. Was it a wonder he sensed a wrongness? It was like vertigo. You stood at the top and looked down a waterfall, and it was all you could do not to spiral downwards. What were the odds on this? How could happenstance work magic like this? He heard her shift position and sensed he was taking too long to think and gather shaken thoughts.

  "I will pass that along to my captain. Which Spires?" He asked as a test with a vague recollection of the name. He slid the letter into his coat and ignored the twitch of irritation blemishing her face like the shadow of a passing thunderhead.

  "Should that be an issue—we are the same kingdom, even if three lands?"

  "Should that be an issue—we are the same kingdom, even if three lands?"

  "The West Spires fleet reports to Prince Gildan. First, of course. Same with Prince Gradil in the east."

  "I see. I can reassure you that your forthcoming mission for Prince Gildan is peripheral with my father's. It was supposed to be a quiet undertaking."

  "It is unfortunate you did not sail with us, it may have been quieter. We have had a dull trip until sighting your boat." Van Reiver gave a sympathetic smile and inclined his head at the small burgundy case on the table. "The case?"

  "Remains with me at all times."

  "All right, I would put you up in the cadet's mess room, but you may wish to use the duke's stateroom instead." Van Reiver grunted. She was giving nothing else away and looked the part. Sounded the part. Had the reassurance for the part.

  "Which do you suggest?"

  "Warm and cosy, or posh, cold and dusty?" Van Reiver frowned over the question as he heard voices outside. "The cadet's mess will be a deck closer to the doctor, unless you wish him to bunk in." Van Reiver grinned at his ingeniousness, but sensed disappointment.

  "Will your cadets mind?"

  "I can stand their upset with immense fortitude; it is part of their learning process and we all go through it."

  Robsin swept the door open with a malicious flourish to admit Tryphon's third mate. Van Reiver kept his face studiously blank and took in the flawlessly attired form of Comace with the same relish as an axe in the balls. In his head, Van Reiver wished he could summon the will to like this spoiled aristocrat with his inclination to sneer at you like a turd on his mirror-polished boot. The youth was like a toothache. Just larger, more painful and visible. He was glad he wasn't one of their eight cadets: they had to live in the same cabin with the condescending bastard. It was even harder to sympathise, as they at least had some tolerance from Comace, what with having the right breeding, or financial lubricant. Fuck the dog's pizzle.

  "I believe you wished to see me, sir," noted Comace, in a stiff stentorian voice, oblivious to Van Reiver's mental meanderings. A good job Comace had no telepathy, as a reader would have been shocked. With the cold shoulder from the youngster, thuggish thoughts were often the sole entertainment the navigator could find when not chatting to his friend Dagmar, or First Mate Sithric.

  "Indeed," said Van Reiver, forcing the pause into the uncomfortable. "Our captain wants our new guests in the cadet's cabin." Comace's face plunged. He looked so upset at the invasion of his petty fiefdom, Van Reiver half expected a sorrowful tear to roll down his cheek. "You may use the Duke's suite until we rejoin the fleet." At this, the third mate's face brightened like a clear dawn. "Our duke wi
ll not appreciate it wrecked."

  "I will keep my eye on them, sir," Comace declared. It was a declaration of intent to Van Reiver. If Comace ever lost his position aboard, he'd have the best dressed town crier in the principality wailing for reinstatement. "Was there anything else, sir, or may I move the boys and their trunks?" Van Reiver stared. From anyone else, it would have been a polite query, albeit formal. From the younger man in that deliberate nuanced tone, it was a typical considered insult. It made a refreshing novelty from the varied uncreative insults of their artillery mate, or the overdone snobbishness of the quartermaster, and they'd had years of practice.

  "Make sure the quarters are usable, as I don't imagine the gentleman will be about ship for a while." Comace scowled at the passengers and left without further comment, snatching the key Van Reiver held up between finger and thumb. The door rattled in its frame at his departure. Pity there wasn't a long drop on the other side. Cunt.

  "I see both you get along," Carla observed into the silence with a surprising unconscious familiarity. Her voice was stronger but remained husky.

  "You noticed?" With her directness, Van Reiver stirred himself and seized upon the rare opportunity for a casual conversation without someone sneering in his face. "Typical class issues, a well-heeled noble son learning the trade and taking orders from 'jumped up underclasses' to use his pet phrase."

  "You?"

  "Me. Landed mercantile family. My parents are from Friscia, for good measure."

  Carla laughed, gave a rough cough, and then swallowed several times. Her voice croaked, but she spoke easier. Maybe Robsin knew some healing?

  He matched her informality to see where it would lead. "Since you know my background, I need some answers on yours—for the captain."