The room went silent, and Kit had to work not to shift her gaze to the man beside her.
“The two of us,” she said, hoping against hope she’d misheard the queen.
“Aboard the Diana,” the queen said. “You will search for Marcus Dunwood, you will locate him, and you will free him.”
Kit knew a command when she heard one. “Is there intelligence regarding his whereabouts?” she asked.
“The sailors believed Dunwood’s captors were headed for Finistère,” Chandler said.
“The pirate fortress,” Kit said. “And, literally, ‘the end of the earth.’” She knew the island’s name and its reputation. It was the largest rocky island among many on the far western edge of Gallia at the boundary of the Narrow Sea. The archipelago was difficult to navigate, and the cliffs afforded a long view of the sea, which had long made it a favorite for pirates and privateers—including the Five, the famous pirate kings, who’d made their home in the fortress during the war.
“What would the Five want with Dunwood?” Kit asked.
“Money,” Chandler said. “Even the Five aren’t arrogant enough to sail directly into a Frisian port. So they take Dunwood back to Finistère, and wait for the highest bidder to retrieve him.”
“Unless we get there first,” Kit said, and Chandler nodded.
“Your Highness,” Grant said, “the Diana is not a ship of war, and it cannot be sufficient for a frontal attack on a pirate quay. A larger vessel with guns would be more appropriate.”
His tone—confident and cold—stoked Kit’s anger, notwithstanding the fact that he was simply wrong. She’d yet to meet a soldier who could tell a staysail from a jib.
“Rescue missions require speed and maneuverability,” Kit said, sparing Grant her most withering look. “Size is irrelevant, and guns are little use when trying to outrun another ship at full sail. The Diana is as swift as they come.” Particularly, she thought, when I’m at the helm.
“You’re a courier,” Grant said. “That’s hardly—”
“Grant,” Chandler warned.
A warning Grant did not heed. “We cannot simply—”
“Colonel Grant,” the queen said, her voice thunderous across the room. “Remember our conversation and where you stand.”
His struggle for control was obvious, but he held his tongue. “Your Highness,” Grant said tightly. And Kit would have given a few gold coins to be privy to whatever had been said between them.
After a moment, as if deciding she’d made her point, the queen shifted her gaze to Chandler. “It appears your suggestion we downplay the captain’s position was perhaps too successful.”
“So it appears,” Chandler said. “Brightling isn’t a mere courier, Grant, and the Diana no packet ship. Brightling fought at San Miguel, discovered the Gallic ships at Faulkney. And the Diana will do ten knots without magic—”
“Eleven,” Kit corrected.
“Eleven,” Chandler said with a nod and mild smile. “And with Captain Brightling’s magic, considerably faster.”
Grant looked at Kit. “You’re Aligned?”
“I am,” she said, eyes flashing and daring him to comment.
But he made no response.
“And, as I mentioned, Grant is an able veteran with his own skills,” the queen said to Kit, anticipating her silent objections. “You both have experience in battle in your respective forces. You have both shown resilience under pressure. You are leaders. And, although your present displays make me question my judgment, which I dislike very much, I believe you will complement each other.” She looked at each of them in turn, an obvious threat in her eyes. “You will partner in this mission, and you will share the command.”
It was Kit’s turn to bristle. But she held her tongue.
“Sensible,” the queen added, nodding in approval at Kit’s control. “Given the need for dispatch, you will set sail tomorrow morning. The Diana will be provisioned this evening.”
“How long will it take to reach Finistère?” Grant asked, and they all looked at Kit.
“Depending on seas and weather, and if we’re able to maintain speed, about a day and a half.”
Grant’s features remained stony, his eyes hard. And there was something else there. Something deeper, darker. Nothing she could identify, at least not yet. But if she was to share her ship—and risk her people—she’d find out soon enough.
“The Diana is anchored at the Crown Quay,” Kit told him. “You know it?”
“I do.”
“Be there at dawn.”
“Very well.” The words were short, sharp. Bitten off, as if their taste were bitter.
Apparently satisfied they wouldn’t mutiny, at least not in the throne room, the queen sat back, looked at each of them in turn.
“Find him,” she said. “Find Marcus Dunwood, and bring him home.”
Four
Kit strode back through the palace, anger building like a storm along the horizon.
She’d do her duty, by gods, because that’s what duty was. Adversity, Hetta had told her daughters, was to be faced head-on, chin lifted, and fists raised. But she didn’t want to haul a viscount across the sea. She didn’t want to listen to his complaints or commands, or watch her words to avoid offending his sensibilities. Which might prove a problem given the state of the guest cabin . . .
She exited the palace, blinked in the sunlight, took a breath. She had sixteen hours, give or take, before the Diana was ready to sail again, and she’d use every damned minute of it. There was much to be done. First thing—get a message to Jin about the Diana’s mission. He had a wife and two children, and sixteen hours wasn’t much to spend with them. But it would have to be enough.
“Flower, missus?”
Kit stared down into the grubby face of a small girl.
She was thin and young, her light skin dotted with freckles (and dirt), and her hair was a mass of tangled curls cut just below her firm chin. Kit guessed she was eleven or twelve, and that she’d taken the flowers—and their earth-clotted roots—from the palace’s front border.
Kit lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t need weeds stolen from someone else’s garden.”
The flowers hit the ground, immediately abandoned. “I can also deliver things. Or carry things. Two bits.”
Kit snorted at the price, but she didn’t like the hollows in the girl’s cheeks. “What’s your name?”