Hello, Readers!
Cormorant pre-order is live! I’m excited to share a new excerpt from the novel. This excerpt stands on its own as a short story. so you can enjoy this whether you’re an existing fan or a new reader. Note: my typo-editors haven’t been over this yet, so you may see a few more errors than in other short stories I’ve posted.
In the novel, this chapter is called “Fourteen Years Ago.” On the eve of his arranged marriage to a princess, a miserable Percy receives an ironic gift - a palace slave who is in love with his wife-to-be. Percy tries to free Layjen and send him away, but Layjen has other ideas.
Here’s the story -
Layjen stood for a long moment on the catwalk of the airship hanger, staring at the confection that was the Ray. She had gingerbread work featuring her namesake, along with eels and sharks, chasing each other in graceful curves around her bows. Her hull was painted a deep, velvety blue. Gold leaf flashed against it like stars in a night sky. The keelhead that had stared down at Layjen as he made the ascent, looked like a string ray in flight, its body rippling in lifelike lines, its tail curving up the keel.
Layjen had always loved art. Under other circumstances, he would have been enthralled by the Ray. Now he felt only foreboding. What am I doing here?
Layjen had been aboard airships only briefly during journeys with his mistress and at parities. He’d never expected to work aboard a ship of any sort, let alone such a rarified beast. My ancestors were pirates, bred to the sea, he told himself as he stepped onto the gangplank.
But Layjen did not feel like a pirate. He felt like a pampered kitten, discarded in the jungle, and trembling in terror. He expected he looked like it, too, from the way the sailors on watch raised their eyebrows. Someone in the twilit shadows smothered a laugh. In the low light, Layjen couldn’t make out their features, but he was sure they were all grishnards. Hunti might be bred to the sea, but they’d never been bred to airships.
Layjen stiffened his spine and raised his chin. Hunti men were a bit smaller and more delicate than hunti women. He did not have an intimidating aspect, but he was very accustomed to being among grishnards, and unlike most hunti, he was accustomed to giving them orders. “I am to report to Master Percival Bellwater, curiosity of his Lordship Theodorus Haplag. Might I trouble one of you to show me the way?”
The tittering stopped at once. Layjen had been raised in the Haplagian court among the royal family, and his accent was unmistakable. None of these sailors had ever heard such sounds come out of a hunti’s mouth. They were struggling to not to gape. They must surely guess that he was a slave, but a slave who probably outranked them.
One of the sailors cleared his throat. “This way, sir.”
The ship was beautiful both above and below, but so strange. Layjen followed the sailor’s lantern through latticed tunnels and over catwalks that spanned dizzy heights until they reached the captain’s cabin in the stern. Too soon, they were at the door and Layjen thought, I’m not ready for this. “Has he taken dinner? I don’t want to interrupt—”
“Oh, I expect he’s taking dinner now,” said his guide in a tone that was not altogether respectful.
In spite of his anxiety over meeting Percival Bellwater, Layjen frowned.
The sailor shook his head. “He’ll just throw you out if he doesn’t want to see you, probably forget about it in the morning.” He raised his voice as he opened the door and called, “Someone to see you, Skipper!”
Layjen thought his knees would buckle as he crossed the threshold. I am really not ready for this.
The room into which he’d been ushered was a softly lit study with a desk in one corner and delicately carved wood furniture scattered over plush rugs. The upholstery was picked out in greens and blues with gold stitching. The ceiling was carved, and it continued the theme of rays, eels, and sharks, diving and twisting in beautiful patterns.
Percival Bellwater sat behind the desk. Layjen had seen him before, although they’d never been formally introduced. Layjen’s general impression had been of a garrulous lordling, always surrounded by friends and impeccably dressed.
He was alone tonight, though, and wearing shirtsleeves. His blond hair gleamed in the soft lamplight. A glass of dark wine stood at his elbow, the bottle beside it.
Several sheets of paper lay scattered over the desk, which Layjen, in his distraction, did not attempt to decipher. “Sir, I’ve been ordered to report to you, curtesy of the Haplagian crown.” He came forward and handed over the slim roll, tied with a blue ribbon and stamped with the royal seal. Layjen felt dizzy for a moment as the pages left his fingers. He watched with a ringing in his ears as Percival took it, broke the seal, and unrolled it carelessly. These were Layjen’s slave papers and references, including an estimate of his value in cowries. It was quite high—a fact that should have pleased him.
Instead, he felt sick.
“Yes, I was told to expect you,” said Percival, glancing at the papers so quickly that he could not possibly have read them. “You were a companion to my lady?” The disgust with which he said “my lady,” made Layjen’s fur bristle against his clothes. A new sort of anxiety squeezed his chest. Is it possible that he knows?
“Personal secretary,” said Layjen too quickly, “a childhood companion, and then…I kept her books.” Stupid, stupid, whispered a voice in his head. Tell him you can read in four languages and manage a staff of two hundred. Tell him you have kept accounts for all five royal children and never failed an audit. If he thinks you’re just a secretary, he’s likely to sell you to some wretched workhouse.
But Layjen stood mute. He did not want to work for Percival Bellwater, and that was the truth of it. No matter how poor his prospects beyond the walls of this airship, he did not want to have to look at the person, day after day, who would share a life and a bed with Melwa Haplag.
That is what the king intended, of course. That is the punishment. For her, too, I suppose. Surely Bellwater doesn’t know…
Percival took a swig of his wine with a slightly off-balance motion that belied his spotless silk shirt. Is he drunk? thought Layjen in astonishment.
To his horror, his new master smiled brightly at him and said, “Well, this is awkward, isn’t it? Whose idea was it to give you to me, do you suppose?”
Layjen wondered if he was about to be killed. “Lord Haplag,” he managed. He knew that he should say, “Lady Melwa,” but the lie was too much insult to injury. Mellie would be crying in her pillow about now. Crying, said a nasty voice in his head, but not sacrificing any of her precious dignity to get you back. Not daring to lose any bargaining chips with daddy dearest.
Percival’s slightly slurred voice brought him back to reality. “I can see you hate me. Fortunately for you, I have an adequate supply of people who hate me. No need for another one. Here.” He held out one of the sheets at his elbow, fumbling it over the side of the desk, so that Layjen had to scramble to catch it.
Layjen stared at the sheet of parchment. It was simple and direct, clearly written by Percival himself and not a secretary. It was a release of services. Freedom, in fact. Unconditional, unqualified freedom. Layjen looked in vain for some catch, some requirement—the sort of life-threatening task often built into such contracts.
There was nothing.
Percival had already turned away to gaze upon the parchment lying at his elbow. “Don’t worry,” he murmured as he sipped his wine. “I filled it out several bottles ago. It’s legal.” He had, too. The signature was bold and straight, the stamp from his signet ring, precise. The document had been witnessed.
Almost absentmindedly, Percival reached out for Layjen’s slave papers and ripped them apart. Then he went on drinking.
“Why?” was all Layjen could think to say.
Percival gave a brief, undignified giggle. “Because it wasn’t Lord Haplag’s idea. It was my father’s. I’m sure he heard some rumor that you were a bit too fond of your mistress and demanded a sop to the family honor.” He snickered again. “He’s going to be so angry when he finds out I let you go.” He looked up and gave a smile that would have lit up a room under other circumstances. But here is just looked fragile and bitterly sad. “So you see, you don’t owe me a thing. This isn’t about you at all. Go on, get out. Have a good life.”
Layjen’s mouth moved automatically. “My clothes…” he stammered. “My jewelry.”
“Keep it.” Percival waved his hand. “You’ll need something to set yourself up. Should be enough.”
It certainly would. Layjen’s reeling brain was already doing the math on the value of his jewels and finest court clothes. It would be enough to take him far away, to Maijha or Mance, where the laws were kinder. He could set himself up as a fine copyist or accountant. Run, he thought. Before he comes to his senses, before Melwa does something stupid like try to rescue you. Just take your freedom and run!
Percival stood up, swaying a little, and Layjen got a whiff of the wine he was drinking. Good gods. “You’re drinking poppy wine on the night before your wedding to a princess?” he exploded.
For the first time, Percival looked a little irritated. “I don’t remember asking your opinion. Also, why are you still here?”
Layjen glanced behind the desk and saw two more bottles on the floor. Seven hells. “He is going to kill you!”
“Oh, he’ll beat me, certainly,” drawled Percival. “If he can. I’m pretty good with a sword these days.”
Layjen was lost. “Who?”
“My father.”
Layjen huffed. “Whatever your father does to you will be mild as milk compared to the way Lord Haplag will react if you insult him by showing up drunk to his daughter’s wedding. Do you aspire to end life as a temple sacrifice, Master Bellwater?” Layjen knew he was being staggeringly impertinent, but his mouth kept moving. “Where are your friends?”
It suddenly seemed very odd to him that the son of a fabulously wealthy silk mogul was drinking alone on the night before his wedding to a princess.
Percival did not answer, and Layjen finally looked down at the parchment on which he seemed so fixated. It was a sketch of the type done by street artists. The scene showed a group of laughing young people, two of them in sharp focus. One was recognizably Percival in patterned waistcoat and fitted overcoat, the other a freckled lad with a sailor’s que, wild hair curling out of its braid. They had their arms around each other and seemed to be in a state of tearing high spirits.
Against his better judgement, Layjen asked, “Who is that?”
“A lie,” said Percival softly and took another sip of poppy wine.
Before he thought about it, Layjen moved around the desk and plucked the glass neatly out of his erstwhile master’s hand. Percival stared at him stupidly as Layjen examined the bottle and saw to his relief that it wasn’t quite half empty. He then made a quick inspection of the bottles on the floor. As Layjen had hoped, these turned out to be ordinary alcohol. Very few people would have been upright after multiple bottles of poppy wine. Even a single bottle in its entirety would have likely made the situation a lost cause. But it’s still early evening, thought Layjen. He can sleep this off before the ceremony.
“Right, sir,” said Layjen briskly, and hauled a dazed Percival to his feet. “Up you get. Where’s your bed? Ah, through here, I expect. Gods, what beautifully carved doors you have on this ship.”
There was already a lamp turned down low in the bedroom, and this was fortunate, because Layjen had his hands full of Percival. Like many lordlings of Layjen’s acquaintance, he was adept at hiding his level of intoxication. His cool demeanor belied the fact that he could barely walk.
“Why are you still here?” moaned Percival, his voice plaintive as Layjen sat him down on the edge of his bed and briskly pulled off his boots. He was still clutching the parchment drawing in one hand.
“Because you just freed me,” said Layjen.
“I know I’m very drunk, so perhaps I’m not making the connection—”
Layjen stood to look him in the face. “You just freed me, Master Bellwater. And maybe you did it for petty reasons. Maybe you don’t appreciate what freedom means, but you just gave me my life, and now I am going to save yours. Because I was not exaggerating when I said that my lord the king will feed you to a wyvern if you arrive at the temple in this state.”
Percival blinked at him. “Am I not marrying the girl you love?”
Layjen felt his jaw clench. “Yes.” He swallowed. “But she was always going to marry someone who wasn’t me.”
Percival’s big, golden eyes watched his face. He seemed to be the sort of person who became searingly honest under the influence of alcohol. “I’m likely to be a terrible husband.”
“Likely, but possibly not predestined. Do you intend to sleep in these trousers, my lord? Because I can’t make sense of the laces.”
Layjen thought for a moment that Percival would refused his help, might throw him out of the cabin, and continue his course to suicide-by-wyvern. But in the end, he fumble his own clothes off and allowed himself to be folded into bed.
He was still clutching the parchment sketch, and Layjen reached to take it from him. Percival’s free hand shot out and closed on Layjen’s wrist with remarkable coordination. He twisted, and Layjen realized in astonishment that Percival was both aware of how to break someone’s wrist and capable of doing it, even in his current state. “Don’t,” breathed Percival.
“I won’t harm it,” said Layjen, a little shaken. “Do you want to destroy it by sleeping on it?” Indeed, if the sketch had not been made on sturdy vellum, it would already have been crushed.
Percival looked at him narrowly, then released his wrist.
Layjen stumbled back, staring and rubbing his arm.
“Sorry,” muttered Percival.
Layjen shook his head. After a long moment, he ventured, “Where is your valet?” He’ll need to be told to expect a bit more work getting you ready tomorrow.
“Gone,” murmured Percival. His voice was growing dreamy, the poppy having taken hold. “I was sleeping with him, and then I said some unkind things, and he told me to go fuck myself and buggered off.”
Layjen stared at him. “You were—?” He glanced down at the sketch. The freckled fellow in the picture was certainly not a valet. You have a rather complicated love life, my lord. And very little in the way of discretion.
Layjen turned down the lamp. He knew he should leave. Instead, he sank heavily into a chair beside the star-studded window, facing the bed. The court will eat this fellow alive!
Layjen watched the gently rising and following mound of bed linens, thinking. He tried to process the conflicting sides of Percival Bellwater that he’d just witnessed—staggering generosity, an inclination to self-destruction, honesty, violence, grief, promiscuity, poor-judgement, loneliness…
“You are a disaster,” whispered Layjen.
Percival’s half dreaming voice floated out of the bed linens. “Whatever you say, Silas.”
Who is Silas?
Layjen stared down at the parchment sketch. He’d known that Percival had a reputation as a rake with unconventional tastes, but the idea that he was hopelessly in love with someone who, for whatever reason, he could not have—this had never occurred to Layjen. He leaned back and gazed, unseeing, at the carved beams overhead. An image of Melwa Haplag leapt before his mind’s eye—her black hair gleaming with bands of gold, her blue eyes snapping as she climbed down from her griffin after a hunt.
Forget the court. She may eat him alive. She certainly wouldn’t value him in his present state. Melwa was not a patient creature.
But she’s stuck with him, thought Layjen, based on everything I’ve heard about the Bellwater fortune and the state of the crown’s coffers.
“What if I stayed?” wondered Layjen aloud.
This time, Percival did not volunteer a response. A soft snore issued from the blankets.
“What if I stayed,” repeated Layjen, “because truthfully, I don’t know how else you’re going to get ready and out the door on time tomorrow morning. It sounds like you’ve driven your personal servants away, and your ship’s crew doesn’t entirely respect you. If I… Gods, I suppose I’d have to accompany you to this wedding.” Layjen grimaced. And yet some bitter part of his brain wondered whether Melwa’s discomfort might make him feel just a tiny bit better.
Perhaps she’s hoping that I’ll just disappear and she’ll never have to look me in the eye again. No such luck, my lady. Because your husband clearly needs someone to look after him, and that might be… He swallowed. It might be the only thing I can do for you…little as you’ll appreciate it.
Layjen got up and paced around the room. I’ll need to learn about this blasted ship. And make your crew respect me. I can’t be the only hunti aboard. That will never do. In fact… This might be an opportunity to reconnect with the culture and heritage that had been lost to him. Layjen considered. He recalled vaguely that a hunti pirate ship of some renowned had been recently captured. She had a hunti name that, he was ashamed to admit, he could not pronounce. Around port, they’d simply been calling her the Shark.
Sharks and Rays are cousins, aren’t they? He struggled to remember her captain’s name… Padeen? No, Padmay.
The crew were in jail and likely to hang…unless someone bought them. The local merchants certainly wouldn’t do it, no matter how skilled the pirates might be as sailors. The Shark had cost them a lot of money by all accounts. Besides, hunti from the Lawless Lands were always the least likely species to be purchased out of a noose. They did not take well to servitude, and grishnards didn’t trust them.
Layjen judged that the cost of his jewels and clothes would be sufficient to buy the whole company. I’ll set them free immediately, of course. Will they feel enough gratitude to crew an airship for me?
He chewed his lip, thinking. Surely some of them will. After all, their own ship is gone, they’ve got no other prospects, and the local merchants hate them. If nothing else, the airship is a quick ticket off the island.
Are you out of your mind? howled another part of Layjen’s brain. Without money, you’re trapped here. What if Percival Bellwater turns out to be as bad at sailing as he is at self-preservation? What if the violence and the poor judgement win out over the honesty and generosity? What if he won’t let you hire a hunti crew? And you’re just assuming he’ll make you a ship’s officer, but he’s been telling you to go away since you walked in the door!
Layjen wandered back to the bedside table, where he carefully rolled the parchment sketch and placed it in a drawer. He sat down again and watched the mound of blankets for a while. I guess I’ll see what he says in the morning when he’s sobor. Make my decision then.
The chair was comfortable, but Layjen doubted he’d be able to sleep. Red moon was peeking through the window now, and it provided enough light for keen hunti eyes to read. Layjen plucked a book from Percival’s bedside table, and was pleased to see that it was about airships. Maybe you’re not incompetent regarding the sailing, Master Bellwater. You study, at least.
Layjen thought ruefully that there was something appropriate about a grishnard airship being his first connection to the sea. My ancestors were pirates, but this may be as close as I get. He opened the book and began to read.
Percy and Layjen are part of the Pirates of Wefrivain series. All 5 books are on pre-order now. They will get paper versions at launch, but I can’t do paper pre-orders.
