Eric Van Lustbader - The Pearl Saga 3 - Mistress of the Pearl

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A Tom Doherty Associates Book New Yo rk

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

Tor Books by Eric Van Lustbader

The Ring of Five Dragons

The Veil of a Thousand Tears

Mistress of the Pearl

MISTRESS OF THE PEARL

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Edited by David G. Hartwell Map by Ellisa Mitchell

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lustbader, Eric.

Mistress of the pearl / Eric Van Lustbader.—1st ed.

p. cm.—(Volume three of The Pearl) "A Tom Doherty Associates book." ISBN 0-312-87237-2 I. Title.

PS3562.U752M57 2004 813'.54—dc22

2003060698

First Edition: March 2004

Printed in the United States of America

0987654321

In loving memory of my father,

Melvin Harry Lustbader

1912-2002

PROLOGUE

So the black Chimaera says to the mermaiden, 'You have displeased me, and for this I will carve your

heart out and feed it to you.' And the mermaiden says, 'I would not mind so much, but I am a vegetarian.'

"The small off-duty complement of Sarakkon laughed at the first mate's joke, and why not? The

Oomaloo was nearing the end of its long journey north from the bustling port of Celiocco on the southern

continent. The air belowdecks was turgid and sweet with laaga smoke. But they sprang to as they heard

the lookout's long-awaited call of "Land-all!" and thundered up the companionway. Halfway there,

however, their high spirits evaporated, as the ship abruptly heeled over. Thrown against the polished

wooden bulkhead, they shook their heads as the ship righted itself. But now they could feel the

thrumming of the heavy seas, and they heard the storm call even as they rushed on deck.

The captain stood amidships, his eyes tearing in the high wind. Like all Sarakkon, he was tall and

slender, his skin, sun-washed, wind-scoured, the color of ripe pomegranates. One eye squinty from a

fishhook through it in intemperate youth. He had a full beard, sign of his rank, and through its thick curling

black hair were threaded carved blue-jade spheres, silver cubes, tiny conical striped shells. He wore a

lightweight kilted skirt and the kaldea—a wide belt of cured sea grape that circled his waist and hung

down in front in a complex series of knots, identifying his status as well as his lineage. The moment his

crew appeared, he gestured them to their stations. Moments before, the wind moaning its intentions in his

ear bones, he had signaled the lookout down from his nest. One glance to the northeast had confirmed

what he knew: within minutes the storm would overtake them. Already they were being buffeted by

fistfuls of sleet. Sensing the storm's powerful heart, he was reminded anew of how arrogant and small

they all were.

Like virtually all Sarakkonian ships that made this long journey, the Oomaloo was a marvelously sleek

three-masted merchanter, but loaded down as it was with valuable cargo, the ship was less maneuverable

and thus more vulnerable to inclement weather. On top of that, the sleet, catching rigging and brass

fittings, looked to bring down the sails. Although the captain was both clever and experienced, he was

under an inordinate amount of pressure because of the nature of one piece of cargo. It was not something

he had wished to transport, but he had been given no choice by the Orieniad, the Sarakkon ruling

council.

The Oomaloo, borne by the last great storm of winter, heeled over, and the high slate seas overran its

scuppers, flooding the deck. The next wave, more towering than the last, took three of the crew, his

lookout among them, as it crashed obliquely across the deck. The howling wind drowned out their

screams as they tumbled across the canted deck, carried overboard into the wild and punishing sea.

The second mate, a parsimonious devil, and therefore in charge of the larder, made an unwise lunge

for them. The captain grabbed him from behind, kept him close to, thus ensuring that he would not lose a

fourth member of his crew to the cruel Sea of Blood. Then he freed him aft to tie down rigging the gale

had ripped loose.

Tearing his mind away from the tragedy, the captain yelled to the navigator to turn west. He and his

first mate scrambled across a deck shin deep in sluicing water, the whorled tattoos that covered their

shaved heads and bodies seeming to come alive with the actions of their muscles.

As he seized the mizzenmast, the other asked him what he meant to do.

"You will help us put the ship under full sail," the captain replied over the roar of the storm.

"Full sail?" The first mate, a knot of muscle, a face all gnawed bone, was aghast. "That will capsize us

for certain." He turned his eyes fearfully to the mainsails already straining their sleet-grizzled grommets to

the limit. "We should be furling all sail."

"We will founder and be taken under."

"Then we should be making all haste for Axis Tyr."

"We are now heading west, the same direction as the storm."

"But that is away from Axis Tyr. The port is our only—"

The captain was already unwinding the rigging from the brass stays. "We are going to use our sails to

race ahead of it."

Still the first mate balked. "That is certain suicide," he shouted, wiping spume off his sharply triangular

goatee.

The captain grabbed his first mate by the wet flaps of his tooled sharkskin vest, slammed his back

against the mast. "Listen to us. Our only chance is to round the Cape of Broken Meridian, where the Sea

of Blood meets the Illuminated Sea. There the ship will be protected. The ship will be safe!"

"Safe?" The mate shot him a horrified look. "No Sarakkon ship has sailed this part of the Illuminated

Sea, and you know why. The legends—"

A wall of water smashed into the Oomaloo, and the ship dipped dangerously to port, taking on more

water. The captain, seeing his navigator wrestling the recalcitrant tiller, bellowed at the second mate. With

that worthy's help, the navigator put his shoulder into it and slowly, with a painful creaking, the ship

turned her high, carved prow more quickly to the west.

"We have no time for superstition," the captain said to his first mate. His thick beard was rimed with

salt water and spittle. The silver runes woven into it glistened in the dim light. "We have our lives to think

of.""Not our lives," the first mate shouted back. "The life of our passenger. It is evil luck to sail with a

female on board."

"More superstition." The captain struck his first mate a massive blow to the side of his head. "You

have not shipped with us before. Aboard the Oomaloo our word is law." A dirk with a wrapped

shagreen handle bloomed in his fist. "Now unfurl all sail and make it quick!" The dirk's point grazed the

side of the mate's neck. "Else we swear by Yahé's sweet lips we will slit your throat."

The first mate leapt to, but not without a look dark with ferment. He and the captain worked smoothly

and efficiently, their muscles bulging, their booted feet planted wide on the pitching deck. Methodically,

doggedly in the raging face of the storm, they repeated the same procedure with the sails on each of the

Oomalao's masts. And as the ship came to full sail, it leapt forward as if propelled by the engine of a

V'ornn hoverpod. Its hull fairly lifted from the boiling sea as it skimmed along on the leading gusts of the

gale.

Waves had ceased to overrun the deck, and to starboard could be seen the rocky tip of the thick

finger of land known as the Cape of Broken Meridian, beyond which lay the uncharted waters of the

Illuminated Sea. The captain noted the fear in his first mate's eyes, but behind the Oomaloo was a

growing wall of water, black and ugly and lethal. No matter what—if the legends were true or no—there

was no turning back. A sure death rode their stern and would doubtless overtake them should their

speed falter.

He strode aft, climbing the short, slippery companionway to where the navigator held the juddering

tiller steady.

"When we come abeam of the cape make ready to turn her hard to starboard," he growled. "We

want to get land between us and the storm as quickly as possible."

The navigator nodded. He had shipped with the captain since their youth. His teeth were gritted, and

the cords of his neck stood out in stark relief with the effort of holding the Oomaloo on course. For an

instant, he caught the captain's eye, and the look that passed between them served as silent tribute to the

crew that had perished. Then they directed their attention to what lay ahead.

The area of ocean off the tip of the Cape of Broken Meridian was known as the Cauldron because it

was aboil even in the calmest of weather. Its extreme turbulence could be seen, and ofttimes felt, by

Sarakkon crews as they headed to and from the port of Axis Tyr. These deep and dangerous

crosscurrents at the confluence of the two seas were fearful enough even without the alarming

Sarakkonian legends attached to the Illuminated Sea.

The captain squeezed the navigator's shoulder. No need to voice his trepidation. The gale was hurling

them directly into the heart of the maelstrom. Grey spume flew over the high prow, which was carved

into a Protector—a composite image unique to each Sarakkonian ship. The Oomaloo's was of the lithe

body of Yahé crowned with the noble head of the paiha. In this way, the very bones of the ship were

infused with the goddess's wisdom and the mythic bird of prey's great healing powers. As the Oomaloo

began to pitch and roll in the fierce crosscurrents the captain knew that they would need all of their

Protector's powers if they were to survive.

The ship dipped precipitously as they came abeam of the cape's tip. He could see the frothy spume

geysering high into the turbid sky as the sea beat itself against the jagged black rocks. He saw the

navigator pushing the tiller, trying to take them hard to starboard. Since the winds were still too high and

unpredictable to risk sending a lookout up the mizzenmast, he dispatched the first mate to the prow to

keep a sharp eye out for any sign of rock outcroppings or reefs.

A great shuddering began to work its way through the Oomaloo as the ship entered the perilous

crosscurrents. The captain got his first look at the Illuminated Sea, and it was not reassuring. Despite its

name, the water was dark as night, the same color as the rocks that jutted from the tip of the Cape of

Broken Meridian. Even the most expert eye would have difficulty differentiating the two.

The speed of the ship, which had been their savior against the storm, now worked against them in

these uncharted waters. The captain called for all sails to be reefed, and his crew sprang to. He was

battening down the canvas when the first mate rushed up to him. His face was pale and pinched and his

eyes rolled in his head.

"We gave you an order," the captain growled, now sorely vexed. "Why have you abandoned your

post?"

"We have—" The first mate swallowed hard. "We have seen it, Captain."

"Seen what?" The captain had his hands full, prepared to order the navigator to alter course. "A reef?"

The mate shook his spume-wet head. "Not a reef. We—"

"Well, out with it then!" The navigator was winning the war with the crosscurrents. The ship was

slowly but surely turned to starboard, putting the finger of the cape between it and the storm. "What did

you see?"

"A Chimaera." The first mate was shaking. "A black Chimaera."

"First, we are in uncharted waters. We are relying on your eyes to keep us from breaking apart. The

daemons out of your imagination—"

"But we did see it, Captain. By Yahé's full lips, we swear it. We saw a black Chimaera. The legends

are true!"

At that moment, they were all pitched violently forward as, with a great grinding scream, the

Oomaloo's forward momentum came to an abrupt halt.

"Reef hoy!"

The navigator's cry was nearly drowned out by the grinding and rending of lacquered timbers. The

captain, picking himself up off the deck, saw a crack like a finger of doom zigzagging up the side of the

Protector, and he knew all was lost. They were impaled upon the thrice-damned obsidian reef. He knew

his duty, the one he had been made to swear before he had set sail. Immediately, he made for the aft

com-panionway, leaving the first mate's screams behind him.

Down the wet companionway he slid. The lower deck was already awash with seawater, with more

imminent. There were multiple rents in the forward hull, as if the sea were eating the Oomaloo alive, and

the crosscurrents ground the ship against the jagged reef, as if to leave only wormy powder behind.

He reached his cabin, tore open the door. Krystren was standing as if anticipating his appearance.

Sea-green eyes, a face of extremes, like iron and velvet. She was wrapped in her wine-dark sea

greatcoat. Her hair, dark and glossy as sea wrack, was wound in a thick braid, like a coil of stout rope

that wouldn't fray in the worst of winter weather.

Without a word, the captain grabbed her hand and hurried toward the aft companionway. Already the

seawater was up to their shins. The ship gave a great lurch, tossing them to their knees. Up ahead,

torrents began to pour through the widening rent. They regained their feet and ran.

Krystren was silent. What was there to say? She had seen he was a good captain, not that it made

any difference; the sea would have the last word today. Up the companionway they clattered, while

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ATomDohertyAssociatesBookNewYorkThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisnovelareeitherfictitiousorareusedfictitiously.TorBooksbyEricVanLustbaderTheRingofFiveDragonsTheVeilofaThousandTearsMistressofthePearlMISTRESSOFTHEPEARLCopyright©2004byEricVanLustbaderAllrightsreserved,includ...

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