Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [338]
"Oh, aye." Shrewdness surfaced in his gaze. "You needn't tell an old sailor, lad. We're a superstitious lot. I see to it that my boys give your Naamah her due. Patron-gifts and all. I know what's proper." He clapped a hand on my shoulder. "No fear, young prince! Your lady ambassadress knew what she was about when she chose the Aeolia and her captain."
I felt better hearing it, and better still observing Captain Oppius as he took command of the ship and ordered the anchor hoisted and the oarsmen to their posts. For all that he cut a comical figure, striding over the deck in a rolling waddle, it was clear he was an able commander, admired and respected by his men.
They obeyed his orders with alacrity. Men sang out in a steady rhythm as they bent their backs to the oars and the Aeolia's prow nosed toward open water. Although the sun was shining overhead, the water in the harbor of Ostia was grey and choppy.
Beyond the harbor, it looked worse.
And indeed, it was.
For the entire journey, the winds were blustery and capricious. The Aeolia was buffeted mercilessly. On a good day, we'd find the ship running before a strong tailwind, sails taut and straining, only to have the wind shift without warning. The sails would empty, slack and flapping, and the ship would wallow while Captain Oppius shouted orders at the wheel and his men raced around the deck and clambered in the rigging.
And then we would catch the wind once more, making headway until the wind changed again.
On a bad day…
On a bad day, the skies were dark with stormclouds that spat angry rain down on us, and the winds would lash the sea into churning waves. Far from cradling us tenderly on Ocean's bosom, the Aeolia rode the waves like an unbroken horse, bucking the crests, plunging into the troughs. On those days, there was no laughing, no singing. Only grim determination, rain-whipped sailors, and dogged Captain Oppius at the wheel. Whether or not we made progress, I couldn't have said. We stayed afloat, which was all that mattered on a bad day.
It was a long journey.
It was Phèdre's letter that kept me sane. I cracked it open and read it as soon as Ostia was out of sight. The whole first page was filled with accounts of the joyful reception the news of my homecoming had met. Despite the fact that it was weeks in the offing, Eugenie had begun turning the household upside down, plundering the markets in order to make my favorite dishes. Hugues had written some very bad poetry in celebration—she included a sample that made me laugh aloud—and Ti-Philippe had gotten roaring drunk in the Hall of Games and had to be carried home. Joscelin, she reported, had actually kissed everyone in sight and gone about grinning from ear to ear for an entire day, which had caused a number of people to ask if he had a touch of the fever.
And she reported on the reception at the Palace, assuring me that Ysandre and Drustan's gratitude was deep and genuine, and that they appreciated the difficulty of the decision. Alais, it seemed, had burst into tears of joy when she learned of it. I wondered what Sidonie had done, but Phèdre didn't say.
There was other news, most of it inconsequential. Court gossip, for the most part. My former friends among the young gentry had not been idle in the Game of Courtship. It might interest me to learn, Phèdre wrote, that Maslin de Lombelon was in disgrace after beating Raul L'Envers y Aragon very badly in a duel, which was believed to be over a slight Maslin had offered Colette Trente. The Captain of the Guard had reprimanded him and sent him away to winter in Camlach with the Unforgiven.
I must own, I smiled at that.
For all its length, it was a light letter, written with a glad heart. If there was bad news, it was nothing so serious that Phèdre didn't deem it could wait. I kept it close to me throughout the journey, a talisman of hope, reading it over and over, until I could almost hear Phèdre's voice reciting it in my head, humorous and wry and filled with affection.
At the end, she sent her greetings to Gilot and