4

Becalmed

The sea was glass, the air was silent, and the sails hung dead. The Heiress to the Dandelion was becalmed.

This had bored and irritated Eliza in equal measure. For nearly a week now, the Heiress had not sailed proper and had floated instead where the ocean currents bade her go. Immediately, though food and supplies had been purchased fresh at Casat, rationing was instituted and the supply of drinking water was carefully watched. Being in the doldrums, Eliza was told, was a serious matter. The Captain or the First Officer were always on watch and the two Masters, officers in charge of navigation among other things, had little break as they constantly kept track of the ship’s aimless meanderings. This set of circumstances would have been trying enough by itself however now, in her seemingly endless boredom, she had time to think. And her thoughts were dark.

She spent her days either reading in her room, though she fast exhausted her stock of books, or wandering about on the top deck. Now, she wore no disguise – as she felt it moot – and the crew treated her with due deference. At least she had a friend in Dazhyen and the Captain, with whom she made casual conversation. None of this, however, not even the aching boredom, was enough to settle the dread she felt. She did her best to stifle this dread, and the constant hum of her anxiety died down when she was around Dazhyen or anyone else, but in the quiet moments it consumed her fully. The Gaunt… nothing she knew of the Meya allowed for the existence of a disease which can be controlled by anybody. Yet, she knew so little. She tried to seek some comfort in the possibility that Odehi had been lying, but she knew the truth when she heard it. Maybe a powerful pur raktali could stop it? She had no idea. In her endless thinking, however, she came finally on the third night to a conclusion which quietened the noise in her head; there was nothing she could do until she reported back to Gunada and Raidas.

In the midst of it all, though, Eliza had found herself a source of entertainment she had not expected. It came in the form of Dazhyen’s daily training with Mr. Frost. Senior Lieutenant Henry Frost was a tall man, the tallest on the crew, and a lithe one, quick with a blade and smart on his feet. Dazhyen was similar in build to him, but slimmer still, and a little shorter. Dazhyen was quick too, which Eliza felt was the result of his long years in prison, but not quick – or skilled – enough.

Every evening, they would spar for a few hours and Eliza – often joined by other off-duty members of the crew – would watch them. This was the time of day she most looked forward to, partly because she derived an unexpected enjoyment out of watching Dazhyen train, and partly because there was little else to do while she had dinner. He was a fast learner and sword-fighting came naturally to him, but he had little in the way of technique. He failed often, falling for simple tricks and ignoring most opportunities. This was natural, of course, and he was never over-hard on himself but Eliza noticed he did not tolerate kindly any failure in this endeavour.

Though they were duelling only with wooden swords, Dazhyen was yet to land a hit on Mr. Frost in an actual spar. Mr. Frost taught him everything and gave him a few free strikes to practice, but when time came to test him, Mr. Frost never treated him as a beginner. Again, and again, the wooden blade thwacked into Dazhyen’s arms, legs, feet, hands, and bare torso. None of these strikes were punitive, of course, and Mr. Frost always ensured that after each bout Dazhyen could retire without shame. He simply never chose to retire. After one particular evening, it was the third since they’d left Casat, Dazhyen’s back had turned a near sickening shade of purple. On that night, Eliza had shared with him some of her salving cream and instructed Able Seaman Harishki in its application.

When he learned of the origin of the salving cream, he thanked her personally which she thought unnecessary, and even offered up a week of his wages as a form of payment. She’d laughed, not unkindly but perhaps too sharply, in response. “Certainly not, Daisy. It is a gift!” she’d said. He’d only smiled in response before taking his leave.

On this day, their seventh in the doldrums, the evening duel between Dazhyen and Mr. Frost had proceeded as per usual.

Both Mr. Frost and Dazhyen were now at the point in the evening where, despite the biting cold which enticed Eliza to wrap up in multiple layers, they had stripped to their trousers and shoes to cool off from the body heat generated by prolonged exertion. With a flash, Eliza remembered the first time Dazhyen had stripped his shirt off. The sun had glinted off the beads of sweat on his back, which traced snakey paths across ancient scars. Today again, she could see the scars – the remnants of innumerable whippings, lashings, and beatings.

“When I was 12, I misspoke when reciting the Chant of Truth,” Dazhyen had told her on the fifth evening, unprompted. Perhaps he had noticed Eliza’s stolen glances at his scars. “It was the worst beating I received,” he turned to show his back to Eliza. “I can’t make out which ones they are,” he tried to trace his fingers along his scars, but the angle proved too awkward. “But they nearly flayed me alive. You know the worst part?” he turned to face Eliza, with a grin on his face. “It was my parents who wielded the whip and the cane. Dmitur instructed them to punish me for my bad breeding, lest they themselves be whipped for raising me as a failure.”

He met Eliza’s gaze, and to her astonishment his eyes were not sad. In them, she read defiance.

“Submission, total deference to the Kitabiyat (that is, our book) to the Truth, to Azda-Mara – that’s what they wanted. We were to be…” with a heavy sigh, his defiant grin replaced by a tired look, he sat down beside Eliza. “Sipah Sach, I think is how you say it in Uttaric.”

“Soldiers of the Truth,” Eliza nodded. She’d personally seen many Sipah Sach arrested.

“Yes.”

“Why did you not break?” Eliza asked the question that had been festering in her mind for days.

“I… don’t know. I bullied those younger than me, I whipped those Dmitur ordered me to whip…” Dazhyen seemed on the verge of tears. “I think I did break. I did… evil things. Unforgivable things, to defenceless children. But…” Eliza studied him intently as he spoke. His jaw was clenched, and he spoke as though being choked. Clearly, he fought back tears. “I don’t think they killed the goodness in me. They tried, though.”

Dazhyen yelped, in frustration and pain, and snapped Eliza back to the present day. She saw that Mr. Frost had landed yet another hit on Dazhyen’s back, and the walloping that passed for a duel had now ceased. Dazhyen clutched his knees as if to prevent himself from collapsing. He was breathless and panting hard, his sweat glistening in the sun. “It’s hopeless!” he lamented, as he steadied himself again and gripped his sword.

“It’s bloody hopeless!” he shouted as he lunged. Mr. Frost read the attack as though he were reading a book and sidestepped, causing Dazhyen to stumble forwards. Mr. Frost’s retaliatory blow landed with a thud on Dazhyen’s back. Had Eliza not given him the salve which he applied daily, which was Raidas’s concoction, she suspected that his back would have been flayed by now.

“It’s hopeless! You can’t be beat!” Dazhyen whirled around, frustration had bent his face in an odd way. His eyes were bloodshot from holding back tears, his cheeks were flushed, and his thick black hair was slicked back with sweat. His chest rose and fell rapidly with his uneven breath as an anger filled his eyes.

“Not so, Daisy,” said Mr. Frost with a calming smile – a smile to which Dazhyen almost instantly responded, as his face unscrewed itself. “You are pushing yourself too hard, boy,” Mr. Frost lowered his sword, “you have learnt much but you allow yourself no time to think on it. To be a good fighter, you must be able to think on your feet, not simply swing and counter-swing.” As he said this, he turned to Eliza, who was sat at the edge of their reserved space on the top deck. “Is that not so, Your Majesty?” he asked politely but pointedly.

“Quite,” she said without hesitation. “Mr. Frost is an experienced duellist, Dazhyen. You will be always unable to beat him if you act with impulse. If you can temper what you feel, you will fight better,” she spoke now to Dazhyen, who had begun to calm down.

“Can you beat him?” asked Dazhyen, with an earnest look in his eyes. She considered her now potential opponent before she responded. Could she? Yes, but with difficulty. Mr. Frost was clearly an exceptional duellist and he held every advantage over her – he was stronger and more experienced, taller and had better reach. But Eliza had been taught to fight from a position of disadvantage. So, she answered truthfully.

“I cannot say for certain, but I could be able to. It would be a matter of great difficulty, however!” Mr. Frost smiled at this, and she smiled back. It was a respectful smile they shared, though his was accompanied by a flicker of acknowledgement in his eyes; a look from which she surmised that he had come to much the same conclusion about her as she had about him.

“So, you could?” asked a hopeful Dazhyen.

Eliza realised the implication and responded with a dumbfounded half-apologetic smile. “I shall not be duelling Mr. Frost,” she said through a stifled grin, “if that’s what you want.” Before Dazhyen could respond, however, another member of the crew started to chant “Fight! Fight! Fight!”, and it quickly caught on. Mr. Frost spun around on the spot, noticing that much of the crew had gathered around them. The Captain, in a large red coat and wearing a hat with a peacock feather, was standing atop the aft-castle. “As long as you don’t kill yourselves,” he muttered and the crew let out a cheer. This was as close to permission as they were going to get.

Mr. Frost grinned and walked over to the still seated Eliza, bending down to whisper in her ear. “It would help their morale a great deal, Your Majesty. Being becalmed does things to a man’s mind… no doubt you’ve already felt the first lashings of cabin fever?” he was incisive and calm, as always, and – also as per usual – he made a good point.

“Well,” she sighed, “at least it could be fun,” she got to her feet, and discarded the blanket she’d wrapped around herself.

“Could be?” the man grinned at her as he readied himself. “You wound me, Your Majesty!”

Eliza laughed as she grabbed Dazhyen’s wooden-sword. “Let’s see about that!”

“Ready?” boomed the Captain, and both duellists nodded. "Any man who wishes to make a wager,” the Captain’s voice was tinged with mischief, “may do so now!” Immediately, a series of shouts erupted around them as wagers were made and neutral parties appointed to oversee them. The Captain waited for the betting to die down, and then shouted aloud “Fight!”

Eliza and Henry Frost lunged at each other, they parried and slashed, jabbed and sidestepped, thrusted and deflected. They were far more evenly matched than she had anticipated and neither landed a hit on the other, for as long as they duelled. On more than one occasion, they had to call a pause to the duel to catch their breaths and Eliza had quickly stripped down to only her shirt and trousers, and Mr. Frost looked as though he’d taken a bath.

The crowd around them was absolutely ecstatic. Dazhyen, in particular, was wildly cheering on Eliza while the Captain watched from above, nursing a bottle of rum. “I thought I’d be stabbed by now!” Mr. Frost quipped as they readied themselves for another fight. “I was certain I’d have been skewered long ago!” Eliza responded.

“Come on then!” he said and they were at it again. This went on for nearly 10 minutes, at the end of which Eliza and Mr. Frost were both exhausted. They had both managed to get glancing blows on the other, but so expert were they in single combat that none of these blows could have been considered to be fatal and so they never stopped the fight. It was only when they both decided to stop, for fear of collapsing, that the fight was ended. This caused a single cheer to rise from the crowd – it was Able Seaman Harishki who, it appeared, had bet on stalemate.

Eliza was glad for the reprieve, for it had taken every ounce of skill developed in her by Raidas, Gunada, and Cermak to keep the fight going to a stalemate. The duel was among the most difficult of her life – it was almost as if she were fighting Raidas! When they agreed to end the duel and both collapsed onto the deck, tired beyond belief, Mr. Frost shot her a smile and winked. To that she responded with confusion on her face.

“Well fought,” he shouted over the crowd. “That is what I meant to say, Your Majesty!” he was grinning wide. “It has been a long time since I’ve had such an exemplary duel,” he seemed genuinely happy at the outcome. She guessed that it had taken everything out of him to draw the fight out to a stalemate as well. “I wish I could say the same,” she had moved a little closer so as to be heard better over the raucous crew, “but I was trained in a hard school!”

“It shows, Your Majesty. It is no easy thing,” he stood up and so did she, “to fight from a disadvantaged position. It is a harder thing still to fight from a disadvantaged position and win. Well, almost,” his tone was half-cocky, and Eliza couldn’t help but laugh. Mr. Frost was an older man, nearer Gunada’s age than hers, and he wore the experience of those long years on his face. Though now he faithfully served in the merchant marine, she knew him to have been a soldier in the Queen’s Army. He left that life, he had said, for his wife who waited for him back in Afor.

“Till next time,” he said, as he wore his shirt and begun to descend below-decks.

“I look forward to it!” Eliza called after him, and watched him make his way through the crowd. He gave Dazhyen an encouraging pat on the back, whispered something to him, and was gone. Dazhyen then stood there, staring at Eliza, his mouth agape and his eyes wide.

“Oh, off with your awe!” Eliza could barely stop herself from smiling.

“Sorry,” he shifted his face into a grin. “That was… a great thing to see,” he was nearly giddy with excitement. “I don’t need to beat him…” he was almost whispering, but now Eliza was close enough to Dazhyen that she could hear him. “I just need to do a little better every time. That’s all I need do!” the revelation seemed to have helped Dazhyen liberate himself, and that made Eliza happy. As she retired downstairs, she realised that for the whole afternoon she’d not thought once about the Gaunt.

Now though, alone and tired, her thoughts were overcome once again by frightful visions. A city in ruins, the dead and dying littering the streets, flies and death in the air… Her pace down the stairs quickened and she flung open a window in her cabin. The air, still and listless, did not help and she vomited into the sea.

“Bloody wind,” she squeamishly said to no one in particular and lay down to read.

It was their ninth day of being becalmed and it had begun to wear Dazhyen down. He had been a sailor for but a few weeks now, but he knew well enough – through the stories and tales shared by the other crew – of the dangers of staying too long in the doldrums. They had only enough water left for another two weeks’ sail – for the plan had been to stop in the small town of Samudabad to refill the ship’s casks of water. Should they run out, the whole crew would be dead within days. Everyone aboard was now permitted only to drink one pint of water a day, greatly reduced from their previous allotment of up to six.

This had not, however, distracted him from his training, though that too had been affected by the rationing of food and water. Now instead of practicing for hours, they were restricted only to one half an hour. This was done to preserve their energy and to ensure they didn’t need too much water. If the wind did not pick up soon, the sparring was to stop entirely and it was for this reason, more than any other, that Dazhyen prayed to any god that could hear him for the winds to blow again.

It had been two days since he’d seen Eliza and Mr. Frost spar and he could not get the image out of his mind. Eliza fought as though she were dancing, and this was for Dazhyen among the most beautiful things he’d ever seen, and Mr. Frost seemed to be playing chess with his sabre. That magnificent spectacle reminded him of one of the few peaceful things his father had said to him – “to watch people do as well as they can the thing they are better at than most people… that is the thing closest to divinity a man can see through mortal eyes.” He could not remember why his father had said this, but it had stuck with him through the years and now he finally understood what the man had meant.

Now, however, Mr. Frost did not spar with Dazhyen as he, in his capacity as First Mate, had been overcome with other and more pressing duties. Thus, Dazhyen’s first real companion among the crew, Bosun Obediah Mert, now sparred with him. He was a far easier opponent, and by a considerable margin, than was Mr. Frost. He was still more than a match for Dazhyen and the duels were difficult, if short, but Dazhyen had won two of the six that the pair had so far fought. Should they make it safely to port once again, a prospect that seemed so remote that Dazhyen preferred to not think about it, he was told that he would be allowed to train with a man called Cermak who, it appeared, was a close friend of the Captain’s. “Don’t let him talk you into enlisting with the Lifeguards, boy,” the Captain had half joked as he told him this. “That bastard has taken too many of my swabbies like that!” his joke, which Dazhyen did not understand, was underpinned by a very real irritation.

None of that mattered on that day to Dazhyen though, since he was overcome with joy at defeating Mert for a third time! Mert had feinted up and flicked at the last minute, but Dazhyen had seen it coming and deflected the blade while planting his shoulder square in Mert’s chest, sending the man tumbling. Within a second, Dazhyen’s blade had “pierced” Mert through the ribs and “killed him”. Mert laughed, out of breath, and took Dazhyen’s offered hand.

“If we make it out of this, Dazhyen, I’m going to suggest to Mr. Frost that we start holding regular bouts! An’ bet on em’ an all!” the bosun tried to smile, but his chapped lips prevented any over-ambitious expression of emotion.

“Then Mr. Frost would win every time!” Dazhyen protested.

“Ah, we won’t let the officers compete!” Mert explained his idea. “Stop that mad bastard from taking part and he can’t win, can he!” Dazhyen had to concede that it seemed a good plan but before he could say anything, he felt a breeze. The breeze became, within seconds, a wind and all around them fabric was aflutter. It was not until that moment that he realised how he had missed the sound of wind flying through cloth. He glanced up and realised that the sails were still tied up and then shot a hopeful look at Mert, who seemed to be so overcome with relief as to be almost weeping.

Mert was that watch’s bosun and, as such, Dazhyen could only begin to raise the sails if he gave the order. “Mert!” he cried out and the man came to his senses, but before he could issue any order, the Captain’s voice bellowed from the quarterdeck. “We’ve got the Stream, boys!”, this immediately was met with a small cheer, “Bosun!” he cried and Mert snapped to attention, though the Captain was well out of sight. “Raise sail! Coxswain! Port to 350 degrees! We make for Samudabad.”

At this point, Mr. Frost floated past them on his way belowdecks. “And when we get there, boys, you can have your fill of drink and meat, and we’ll be done with this rationing!” he shouted. With orders issued, Dazhyen and Mert got to work raising and managing the sails. Not long after the wind had caught in the sails, which ballooned magnificently and with them did Dazhyen’s relief, he asked Mert a question which had been pestering him for much of the hour.

“What did the Captain mean by ‘we’ve got the Stream’?” he asked.

“The Stream is what we call it but by proper name it is the Northerly Wind. It runs parallel to the Southerly Wind, what we call the Gale. The Stream and the Gale are better names if you ask me,” he wet his dry lips with some rum as it was the first time they’d sat down since the wind had picked up. This explanation had not helped Dazhyen understand, and he let his confusion show on his face to which Mert rolled his eyes.

“The Stream runs north, running parallel to the coast and to the Gale, which runs south. Ships take the Gale to head south, and the Stream to head north. But between them there is dead air, near as always. That’s what we were stuck in.”

“Ah,” Dazhyen understood but this brought up another question in his mind.

“Now don’t go thinking the Captain or one of the coxswains steered us wrong. These are winds, boy!” Mert had forestalled Dazhyen’s question. “They follow a general direction, they don’t march like tin soldiers. There nowt we can do if they shift by a few miles, is there?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Their voyage continued thus for another two days before finally they spotted land and the city that would be their waystation, Samudabad. He had been told by Eliza that the city was among the rarer independent cities on the White Coast. The Grand Princedom of Samudabad was not ruled over either by the Sultanate of Damad to its south or the Grand Duchy of Sunrise to its north. Even from afar, he could make out the character of the city’s buildings. Built, like Casat, on the foot of a mountain and at the mouth of a river, it resembled that greater city in many ways though it was much smaller.

Its buildings too were white with smatterings of colour, rooved by golden-brown shingles. He assumed this was the architecture of the cities which dotted the White Coast. “About time,” Harishki was stood next to him as they were both on watch together that morning. “I love the city, Daisy. It’s not as magnificent as Casat or Damad, and it’s a down right hovel compared to Sunrise. But… It’s simple,” he sighed, hands on hips, “and, as Eula is my witness, simple is all I’ve ever wanted out of life.”

Dazhyen screwed his face in mock confusion. “Eula? You’ve never struck me as particularly smart, Hari,” Dazhyen ducked the punch that followed, though the second caught him square in the gut. Eula was the Sapti goddess of knowledge and wisdom, and rarely worshipped by sailors who preferred to stake their faith in the Saint of Travellers and Seafarers, St. Brunius. Mr. Frost and Mert, as a matter of fact, wore amulets of St. Brunius on silver chains around their necks. So, to hear Eula’s name escape from Harishki’s lips was funny beyond belief to Dazhyen.

“I’ll have you know, Daisy, that my mother – Bessamere preserve her – was an acolyte of St. Georgina!”

Dazhyen grinned, the punch was not hard, and responded without breaking a sweat, “St. Georgina? Never heard of her mate, she sounds made up.” This time, he ducked both punches, which annoyed Harishki further.

“Wiley bastard,” he chuckled through the annoyance. “St. Georgina was one of Eula’s Chosen, or so they say. Helped rid Afsos, the city of my birth, of a river demon that was terrorising it.”

“Aye, sounds likely that does,” Dazhyen smirked but this time was caught by both punches. “That ought to shut you up!” and it did. They stood there, their shift over, watching the city grow closer, and Dazhyen realised that he was truly happy. Nothing could strike him low, he figured, as long as he had his ship and his crew.

About an hour after they tied up at Samudabad, Dazhyen was summoned to the quarterdeck. This was no ordinary summoning, however, as he was asked to present himself as well as he could. He had no uniform, as they were not in the Navy but in the merchant marine, and as such he donned the old suit that Captain Rakehead had given him. He had no real understanding of why he was being summoned so, but when Mert delivered the summons he was smiling broadly. Dazhyen felt that Mert’s smile was one of pride, but that made little sense.

It was in this air of confusion that Dazhyen presented himself to the quarterdeck. There he saw Captain Rakehead, Mr. Frost, one of the Masters, a few Able Seamen – including his friend, Harishki – and Bosun Mert. They were all standing straight and in a haphazard conical formation, with Captain Rakehead the tip of the cone. Sitting behind them all, her face dappled in the golden evening sunlight, was Eliza, who now wore a beautiful blue dress. It was the first time he had seen Eliza in a dress since the day of the Queen’s funeral. Her auburn skin glowed in the sunlight and her natural black hair was tied up into a bun. She was beaming at him, and the smile had reached her eyes. It took all his strength to not stare at her as he turned to face the Captain. Had he gazed at her a few more seconds, he would have noticed that she had similar trouble turning her attention away.

“Son, over two months ago,” the Captain did not much wait on ceremony and Dazhyen snapped to attention. “You joined the crew of my ship as a landsman. I shall not beat about the bush here – Lieutenant Frost and I have decided to promote you to Seaman Third Class.” Instantly, Dazhyen’s heart began doing summersaults. “It takes at least a year at sea to earn this rank, but we feel that you’ve done more than enough in these past months to earn it early.” Every man murmured agreement and Eliza shouted “Hear! Hear!”. “Not a man we’ve asked disagrees, not even a woman!” the Captain laughed at his own joke and Mr. Frost cracked a polite smile. “It’s improper, though. You haven’t enough experience to warrant it…” Rakehead’s laughter died down, and Dazhyen’s heart skipped a beat in terror. “But… call me foolish,” Rakehead shrugged. “I know a good man when I see one.” Dazhyen gave a feeble smile.

“That’s all. I don’t know why Mert asked you to bother to dress proper. It’s not a ceremony,” the Captain was back to grumbling his words. “You do get paid more, though. Not much, just two wariyas for a week, but it’s good money for honest work.”

“Thank you, Sir!” Dazhyen was so happy he could cry, but he held his composure. “Dismissed, you fools,” the Captain waved the gathered party’s dismissal and muttered to himself as he descended. “How many times must I tell them this isn’t the Navy!” Dazhyen heard him say to himself.

That night they had spent on the ship as they were all too tired to enter the city, and Dazhyen was thankful for it. He was bursting at the seams to explore this new place, but was reluctant to do so without company. He found it odd but was nevertheless relieved and glad for the fact that violence of Casat no longer troubled him. It was halfway through the second week of their voyage back, just before being becalmed, that he had his first restful sleep. This, he supposed, was due to the fact that he was spending what energy he could spare on learning to be better – and that was all he could do, as he saw it. That night before turning in, for he still wasn’t considered experienced enough to be assigned to a night watch (an appointment he most eagerly coveted), he had spent some time breathing in the new city. He stood at the edge of the ship’s foredeck, nearly stumbling over the railing, as he observed the city.

It was very much like Casat indeed!

“Another beautiful city,” Eliza was behind him. This time she was dressed in a beige dress of thick cotton and wore bangles of gold. The colours made her skin sparkle, Dazhyen thought. “Every coastal Purvatahi city you go to is like this, all the way down to where the Purvata Coast meets the Tavudin Peninsula to the south. They’re perhaps the prettiest cities in the world…”

“No!” she corrected herself. “I tell a lie. The single prettiest city in the world is Felstat, the Mountain City. It is deep inside, on the continent, in the mystical land of Issendal, and it is perched atop a high mountain. I have been but once… still, it left quite the impression on me…” she was now standing next to Dazhyen, her elbow almost touching his. He felt, in that moment, an impulse to edge his elbow slightly to his right on the railing and that much closer to hers, but restrained himself.

“Names are a silly thing,” Dazhyen sensed that Eliza was rambling somewhat aimlessly, but did not stop her as he wanted to learn more. Her fingers danced a nervous dance on the railing as she continued her impromptu lecture. “In Ushuski, we call this the White Coast, after its beaches, obviously,” she indicated to the strips of sand that sparkled silver under the moonlight, “but the locals, though they have no language of their own as they are products of wars and imperial projects, call it the Purvat Ahi in Uttaric. The Eastern Coast. The Dunwennish, in their bull-headed insistence on not translating local names, call it the Eastern Purvati Coast – essentially Eastern Eastern Coast Coast. I assume they think there is a Western Purvati Coast, based on that nomenclature!” Dazhyen chuckled, and Eliza seemed to be relieved at his response. Inexplicably, Dazhyen’s chuckle turned into a laugh which quickly morphed into cackling as his eyes met Eliza’s. She cackled with him, like children sharing a bad joke.

“It feels good to laugh, Your Ma-”, a stern look from Eliza cut him off. “Sorry,” he cleared his throat, “it feels good to laugh… Eliza.” It still felt extremely unnatural saying her name.

“I’m your friend, Dazhyen. And friends do not defer to title. How would you like it if I called you Seaman Third Class Gerisov every time I addressed you?”

Dazhyen considered it. “I should like it very much!” he smirked. “It is the first time I’ve had a rank to my name that meant something.” Eliza smiled, though Dazhyen did not see it, and replied.

“Be that as it may, you are my friend. As I am yours,” she looked at Dazhyen who was looking out over the city, “I hope,” she said quietly.

“Yes, Your Ma- Eliza. You are my friend,” he turned to look at her and they shared a smile that made Dazhyen’s heart skip several beats. My first… friend, he thought to himself, but did not say it aloud. He immediately went weak in the knees and lost his footing, but kept himself steady as they turned their attention back to the city. “In many ways… I am thankful to the King and to his advisor for throwing me in jail.”

“Oh?” she was being coy. She wanted Dazhyen to elaborate, he guessed.

“Well,” he turned to face her, and immediately stumbled on his words. “It’s just- I- the Dandellion- you-”

She laughed, and Dazhyen flushed and smiled out of embarrassment. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Daisy. I know what you mean!” Their shared laughter died down, and a cold night’s whistling winds occupied the silence. “I just wish that we didn’t have to meet in such… trying circumstances.”

It was Dazhyen’s turn to prod. “What do you mean, Eliza?” her name sat on his tongue like a chicken bone picked out of a roast.

“Well,” she was not tripped up as was he, “you came into my life first as… prisoner. I didn’t know you then, not properly. But that is not what I truly lament.” He caught her glancing at his back. “I despair for the life you led, the pain and the misery of it. It all seems… as though you have paid for my friendship with the skin off your back."

Dazhyen screwed his face. “I’m sorry, but that… that makes no sense.”

She laughed nervously. “I’m not sure I said it right. I just wish that you did not have to have led such a painful life – my friendship seems a terrible compensation for all those whippings.”

“I’m not sure I see it that way,” he turned to face her fully, and in doing so put his back to the city. “I see your friendship as a gift, or perhaps reward. Not a gift or a reward for the man you see in front of you,” his voice began to catch in his throat. “For I, as I stand here, have committed a great many sins.” He coughed, trying to dislodge the syllables from his throat, and continued. “But… your friendship is, perhaps, a reward that may be bestowed when I have… atoned for the sins of my past.”

Eliza’s eyes were wide, and she swallowed hard. Dazhyen immediately felt as though he’d offended her, but before he could open his mouth to apologise, she’d begun to speak. “You have nothing to atone for. Let us no longer speak of friendship as reward or compensation for the miseries of the past – yours or mine. Let us simply…” she had composed herself remarkably quickly, and spoke with all her monarchic authority, “let us simply… be friends,” she smiled.

“Yes,” Dazhyen’s nerves broke and he guffawed. “Yes, I think I would like that.”

They stayed like that for a few moments but before long, it was time for bed. “Good night, Dazhyen,” Eliza pulled him for a hug, which startled him. Then, she planted a kiss on his cheek, and turned to head away. The lamplight caught in her bangles as she walked, and the moonlight danced off her earrings. Dazhyen couldn’t tear his eyes away from her until she was well and truly belowdecks.