The Steel Princess

Chapter 2: The Quiet Dead

Queen. Two weeks at sea, and Skye never once let the word slip from her mind. Her thoughts wanted to rebel every time, but she made herself fix on it, until there could be no doubt. Still, she felt sick with it, and not just that. She was a miserable sailor, spending most of the voyage thrashing in her bunk, occasionally spewing up the meagre contents of her stomach. By the time they rounded the Cape of Bone, as it was locally known, she felt hollowed out and wan, reduced to a stretched frame of grief and nervous exhaustion.

It was a relief when the seas finally calmed. The waters around the cape were rough even at this time of year, but on the other side, in Eskelene waters, they smoothed. Skye crept up on deck when she heard the watch bell sound, and found herself confronted with a familiar sight.

Home. Even round the span of the Cape, the landscape changed dramatically, from the sere, dusty hillsides of the western Empire to the rucked emerald peaks and valleys of Eskeleth. Even now, there were drifts of fog along the coastline, the forested hills rising like the humped backs of great beasts above the murk. Even over the tang of saltwater, the air smelt of pine.

Skye sucked a deep breath, then fell to coughing and gasping, her stomach rebelling even now. The sailors casually ignored her, circling around her blanket-swaddled form as though she were the centre of a whirlpool. It would be another half day to port, Skye knew; if she was going to make herself at all presentable, now was the time.

It was early evening by the time they coasted into the harbour at Tulmeroc. Skye had managed to brush her greasy hair and rub some of the worst scuffs off her boots, but there was nothing she could do about the fact she didn't have a stitch of finery to her name. Arriving to claim her crown in assassin's blacks had felt too much like an omen, so she'd opted for old travelling clothes, stained leathers and a faded, bottle green cloak. She looked like a caravan guard, maybe a mercenary, but it was the best she could do.

The roll of the ship as they moored set Skye's stomach complaining once again, and she was glad there was no ceremony as the gangplank was lowered. Instead, she staggered down to the quay alone and unannounced. She might have joked about what an ignominious entrance this was, if she wasn't wracked with dry heaves, and if she'd had any jokes left in her.

Figures emerged from the dockside, setting the low mist churning. Two were guards holding torches against the rapidly darkening evening, and the third glittered beneath their light. Skye squinted at him, trying to put a name to the face.

"Your Highness." The voice came out of the fog, low and controlled; Skye caught a glimpse of fine robes, dark skin and a dark pointed beard – and a chain of office, flashing against his chest when he moved. "You have my sincere condolences. Your father was a good man and a great king, and your sister and brother were taken from us too soon. Now, you must be tired after your journey. Please, this way – we have a carriage waiting."

Skye didn't move. Her instincts prickled in warning, even strung-out and exhausted as they were. "Do I know you?"

"Ah, forgive me, Your Highness." The man bowed, courtly, but only just low enough to be deferential. "My name is Minister Varren, Your Highness. I had the honour of serving on your father's Council, before his sad demise."

Skye stiffened. There had been few details of her family's deaths before she left Imaldra, and she'd spent the whole voyage concocting new and more elaborate ways they might have died. It wasn't just speculation that set her teeth on edge, though – she didn't know this Varren, who was too young to have been a minister before she left Eskeleth six years ago, but she instantly disliked him now.

But that was petty, and childish. This was just a man doing his job, and a really sodding unpleasant job, given the circumstances. There was no need to form baseless opinions of people in the dark, and certainly not to be a brat. "Thank you, minister. The carriage, please."