“Only on the good days,” Kit said with a grin. “Stay with the ship,” she added absently. Without waiting for a response, Kit climbed down onto the dock, severing her connection with the sea. She’d have a hollow in her chest until she returned to the water. And that wasn’t the only adjustment.
The rigidity of the boardwalk echoed in her bones with each step. And while the air still smelled of brine and carried the slosh of water against wood, the sounds and scents of the city were layered over it. Humans and animals and woodsmoke and cooking. And instead of the creak of hemp against wood, there were hooves against brick, the call of gulls, a sorrowful melody played by a busker in front of the customs house.
The emissaries stood at attention, hands clasped behind their backs, faces set in blank scowls.
“Captain Brightling,” said the one on the left. “Her Royal Highness Queen Charlotte II requests your immediate attendance at the palace. We’ve horses.” He gestured to three enormous creatures that stared at Kit from the end of the dock, chewing their bits with gargantuan teeth.
Kit Brightling had faced down typhoons, ships of the line, pirates, hunger. She didn’t mind being aloft, wasn’t nervous speaking to the queen, and had no qualms about leading her crew through storm or charge. But she had to work very hard to keep the dread out of her eyes.
It’s not that she was afraid of horses. She wasn’t. That would have been childish. She simply didn’t trust them, and that was a matter of logic. They were larger than humans, had enormous teeth made for grinding, and could kill a human merely by lying on them. Putting one’s life in the hands—hooves?—of a horse was simply bad planning.
Kit shook her head. “I prefer to walk.” She was fairly certain she’d kept her tone mild.
“Walk, Captain?” The emissary on the right looked horrified.
“I’ve been cooped up on the Diana, so I’d appreciate the fresh air. And it’s a scant half mile to the palace.”
“Very well,” said the one on the left. “Proceed inside. You will be met.”
Before they could change their minds, she turned on a heel and strode toward the road, giving the beasts a very wide berth.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she was wise.
Three
She might have preferred water to land, but there was something to be said for the markets of New London. Stalls lined the road that led to Exeter Palace, baskets overflowing with spices and fruit, pastries and pasties. One stall sold amulets and tokens, another cuts of mutton, a third the softly woven fabric from the Isles’ northern reaches. People of a seemingly endless variety moved among them—tall, short; dark, light. Some had come to the Isles to escape the violence of war on the Continent, others as part of cultural exchanges instituted by King Richard, the queen’s father, before his death. Diversified and open markets, he believed, were healthier and, therefore, more stable for the populous than economics based on few goods and colonization.
At the edge of the market, solid and stately, was Marten’s, the coffeehouse where investors insured the cargo, placing bets on which ships would come back—and which wouldn’t—and ringing the bell for each merchant ship that returned safely to port.
As she neared the palace, the stalls gave way to stately buildings where importers brought in goods from the Continent, and sent out goods from the Isles. Bolts of silks and good brandy coming in, wool and coal going out. The Unified Church of Isles, where the old gods had been exchanged for a unified being who created and spread the world’s magic, stood across a busy road from the palace, its own silver bell chiming the hour as she passed.
Exeter Palace was long and white and columned, nearly eight hundred rooms that served as Queen Charlotte’s residence in New London. It was surrounded by an imposing black fence over which curled the Saxon sea dragon in brilliant gold.
She was recognized by the guards—all of them members of the Queen’s Own—and was allowed through the gate and into the grand rotunda of the palace proper. White stone marbled through with pale gray and gold covered floor to domed ceiling. The cavernous room was nearly empty but for a few who waited for instructions or meetings with the queen or her emissaries.
Kit glanced around . . . and found a friend among them. He stood near a potted palm at the edge of the room: tall and fashionably trim, with green eyes and a short crop of dark hair. Charles Kingsley worked in the Crown Command’s Foreign Office for the Isles’ spymaster, William Chandler. Kit’s sister and closest friend, Jane, was convinced Kit and Kingsley were destined for wedding bells. Kit liked Kingsley, but she had no interest in marriage, in giving up the sea for domesticity.
Kingsley looked up as she moved toward him, and smiled warmly. She smiled back.
“Mr. Kingsley,” Kit said.
“Captain Brightling,” he said, and offered a bow as neat as his black tailcoat and waistcoat. “I didn’t know you’d returned.”
“Only just now,” Kit said. “You’re waiting to see Chandler?”
“I regret I’m unable to provide any details regarding my intentions.”
Kit snorted. “You are, as ever, the soul of discretion.”
“I could hardly work for Chandler without being so. Your mission was successful?”
“I regret I am unable et cetera, et cetera.” Many knew of her position in the Queen’s Own, but few were aware of her actual duties. Most believed she was little more than a courier, shuttling important messages to and from New London. She had delivered messages once or twice, when time was of the essence. But her missions were rarely so mundane.
King Richard had created the regiment to serve as his personal guards after an assassin was nearly successful in removing him from power. The king believed the attempt was aided by officers within the Crown Command, so to his personal guards he’d added a select few others who could undertake sensitive tasks without the Command’s knowledge. Queen Charlotte had carried on the tradition when she took the throne after his death, and Kit had been inducted three years later.
Kingsley grinned. “Chandler should steal you away from the queen.”
“I belong to the sea,” she said, “and the sea belongs to me.”
“Sailors always have a proverb at the ready.”
“John Cox,” she said. “Cox’s Seamanship is very quotable.”
Kingsley snorted. “John Cox didn’t have a friend in the entire fleet, and spent most of his time at a desk penning that blasted book.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “With intelligence officers, it’s all brains. Learning what’s worth the trouble—and what isn’t.”
“And what’s worth the trouble?”