Chapter Four
It would be an understatement to say that Eadric was not well-liked. Since gaining passage on the Albatross, the queen’s advisor had dismissed his quarters as unsatisfactory, the crew as incompetent, and the captain himself as a poor conversationalist and dinner companion. A suspicious person might think he was going out of his way to alienate everyone around him, but the truth was that the insufferable bird couldn’t help it. He’d spent years cultivating a cloud of haughtiness. It served him well in a world where scholars were seen as the gatekeepers of history, whose disdain, disregard, or general malaise could prompt a less-than-favorable footnote on a person’s permanent legacy. What he hadn’t realized was that neither ship nor sailor gave a crab’s leg what future generations might have to say about their importance. They had a job to do. And Eadric, for the most part, was putting himself in the way.
“Marshall.” The kookaburra chirped abruptly as he came to a clumsy landing on the rail near Marshall’s arm. “I demand that the imposter who calls himself a cook be put off this ship, post-haste.”
Lieutenant Ryder joined her captain in staring through the fog at the approaching coastline. “He’s making demands now, is he?”
“Post-haste, no less.” Marshall arched an irritated brow.
Eadric sniffed and puffed his feathers. “Go ahead, make light of a serious matter. But I know what happens on these ships. And I’m telling you, that galley of yours is a health hazard just waiting to happen. When I expressed these concerns to your cook, he had me removed and barred from – and I quote – ‘his kitchens.’ Can you imagine the audacity?”
“Indeed I can,” Marshall replied, stone-faced.
“Positive thoughts, sir,” Ryder reminded in an equally-stoic tone.
“Were that not enough,” the advisor went on as though he hadn’t heard. “He outrageously believes that I should have to adhere to the navy’s pedestrian system of rationing. I’m no commoner, Marshall. I’ll not be treated as one.”
“Certainly not,” the captain said.
“For shame,” Ryder agreed.
Eadric looked from one to the other until it finally sunk in that they were making fun of him. “Do you allow all of your people to behave so… brazenly… with those who are clearly above their station? Do they speak to you in this manner, as well?”
At that, Ryder turned to lean on the rail with a glare. “The captain has earned a little something called due deference, advisor. So we speak to him, ever and always, with the highest of respect. For example, were any of us to seek permission to hurl a certain pretentious windbag from the deck by his tail feathers, we would approach him with sir and leave with please. We’re very well-mannered pedestrians that way.”
Chirping in alarm, Eadric took a skittish hop back on the rail.
Marshall coughed, suppressing his amusement. “Positive thoughts, Lieutenant.”
“Oh, the thought becomes more positive by the moment, sir.” Her teeth glinted with every word.
“Captain.” They were interrupted by a uniformed young fennec before the situation could escalate. “Helmsman says we’re as close as we can draw to Pelham Point. Any farther and we put the Albatross at risk. Should we ready a raft from here, sir?”
Seeming grateful for the chance to answer an honest question, Marshall gave the ensign a nod. “That would be appreciated, Mr. Wexler.”
With a final glare in Eadric’s direction, Ryder turned and placed a hand on the hilt of her sword. “Sir, if you require a security escort…”
“Also appreciated, but unnecessary.” Marshall waved a hand. “The Baron’s forces haven’t shown any interest in Pelham Point thus far. And by all accounts, this island only has one inhabitant – a doddering old commodore who watches after the lighthouse. I have some experience with the type. You may invite Commander Calum to join me ashore at his convenience, however.”
“Aye, sir.”
Ensign and Lieutenant both offered quick salutes and turned to their ordered duties.
When Eadric thought they were beyond earshot, he sidled closer to Marshall on the rail, tipped his beak in the fennec’s direction, and whispered, “About your young ensign… Far be it for me to condemn your tolerance of the commoner species, Marshall, but a fox? Don’t you think it quite imprudent to have one of his kind aboard? Pirates may consider them lucky, but foxes of any species are unpredictable and ambiguous, even in the best of circumstances. They’re not to be trusted, Marshall. I would think that you, of all people, would know better.”
Ryder and Wexler turned on the instant. Wexler’s ears drooped in embarrassment, while Ryder looked for all the world as though she was fighting to keep her hand away from her sword.
Once again, the hard-of-hearing bird had misjudged the superior abilities of those around him.
With controlled movements, Captain Marshall clasped his hands behind his back and pulled himself upright, drawing a too-calm breath. “I, of all people?”
Oblivious to their reactions, Eadric shrugged, “Well, yes. As a well-educated member of… of…” Seeing the glint of steel in Marshall’s eye, he trailed off and looked around the deck, having finally noticed that all work had ceased. Every topside member of the crew now stood facing him in a stance that – while not precisely threatening – bristled with anger and expectation.
Several long moments followed in which Eadric seemed as uncomfortable as he’d likely ever been in his life.
“Marshall,” Now speaking in something of a stage whisper, he cleared his throat in an attempt to explain, “My intentions were simply to compliment your… broadmindedness. It’s uncustomary, certainly, but that’s not to say that it isn’t admirable…”
Again, the advisor’s sentence fell away as the whole of the crew took a step toward him.
From the other side of the deck, Ryder placed a protective hand on Wexler’s shoulder and seethed, “We can still hear you, Eadric.”
He parted his beak to reply, but the captain cut him off with the mere tilt of his head. “Enough. That the Scholars Guild would see fit to promote someone like you does not surprise me. They are rather fond of empty hierarchies, and prejudice plays into that notion all too well. But I still find myself puzzled by the queen’s decision to place you on board my ship. Remind me again, Advisor, why are you here?”
He hesitated, seeming reluctant to speak. “Well… primarily… because the queen believed someone should be present to record your journey.”
“And, in your time as a scholar, has no one bothered to instruct you on the differences between recording and inciting?” Eadric looked as though he were about to respond, but Marshall stopped him with an even tone. “Then allow me to assist. One includes a great deal of purpose-driven writing and little else. The other includes a great deal of pointless speech and little else. I’m sure you can suss out for yourself which is which. To help you remember, I will ask that you practice only one of them at a time. Bear in mind that the queen’s instructions were on the recording end, so choosing to practice its alternate would probably be ill-advised.”
Aghast, Eadric puffed his feathers and made an awkward squawking sound as if in protest. “What’s this? You’re disallowing me from talking?”
When the captain turned to face him directly, Eadric flinched at the look in his eyes. “Indeed, that is precisely what I’m doing. It’s become apparent that you’re not ready for the burden of decency, and it seems rather unfair to foist your inadequacies onto the rest of the crew, don’t you think?”
“But Marshall…”
“Captain,” Marshall corrected evenly. Were it not for the intensity in his eyes, he might have been speaking of afternoon tea. “Unlike the titles bestowed upon noblemen simply for being, it is one I worked hard to attain. I expect you to use it.”
“I…” Eadric averted his eyes. “Yes… Captain.”
“Most excellent. Should we return safely to Secora Tor, you may resume your self-importance at your leisure. But out here, the Albatross is a sovereign nation. No one outranks me. So when I ask you to hold your tongue, you will do so. And you will treat each and every member of my crew with the respect that they have earned, or this will be a very difficult voyage for you indeed. Do you understand?”
Eadric’s expression had changed. He looked as though he hadn’t heard much beyond a single phrase. “Should we return? What do you mean should?”
Apparently it hadn’t occurred to the sedentary advisor that anything could actually go wrong on an expedition such as this.
Content to leave Eadric’s fears unanswered, Marshall turned from the prow. “Ensign Wexler, would you be so kind as to surrender your duties to the advisor for the day? If his purpose is to record our activities, it would be a shame to deny him a personal look at what it takes to earn one’s keep aboard an honest vessel.”
Wexler saluted, while Ryder smiled ominously and offered, “Sir, I’d like to oversee this particular detail, if I may.”
“Brilliant suggestion.” The captain turned to Eadric. “What do you think, Advisor?”
The bird looked from Marshall to Ryder and back again, sputtering incoherently, “I… well I… but… ”
Pivoting in smooth military fashion, Marshall walked away and concluded for him, “He’d be thrilled.”
Ryder bumped Wexler’s shoulder with her elbow in a friendly show of support that made his ears perk forward at last.
“Thrilled?” She laughed. “Why, he looks positively inspired.”
≈
In his cabin, Marshall closed the door and shook his head. His dedication to the queen notwithstanding, he could easily see fit to maroon Eadric on the rocks of the Manus with limited rations and a compass he likely couldn’t read.
Winged or not, it would be a rough flight back to the capitol if he couldn’t find his way.
Grabbing his overcoat from the back of a chair, Marshall flinched at the unexpected clank of something dropping to the floor from his pocket. It clattered from his field of sight before he could see what it was.
One knee on the floor, he stooped beside the desk and saw his father’s compass lying in the shadows beneath, tipped on its side as though facing him.
When he reached for it, the needle began to spin.
Marshall recoiled.
He felt the temperature in the room drop and looked around for an open window, but all were closed as tightly as when he’d entered.
Chiding himself, he drew a steadying breath, which he inadvertently held as he knelt again and reached for the still-spinning compass. With some coaxing at the tips of his fingers, he managed to finagle it close enough to reach, though its edges made a rather horrid scraping sound when he pulled it across the floor. As it drew closer, the needle began to spin even faster, unnerving him. He released his held breath and it fogged up the glass. Then, abruptly, the needle stopped. Quite against his better judgment, Marshall looked to the right, where the needle was pointing.
And, from beneath his desk, he saw the faint outline of bare feet.
“…Son of Masguard.”
In a burst of instinctive movement, Marshall rolled away from the desk and onto his feet, sword drawn, ready for anything.
The compass skittered across the floor in the opposite direction.
But the room was empty.
Muscles still tense, Captain Marshall pulled himself upright and sheathed his sword. In slow, deliberate strides, he moved to pick up the compass – which sat harmlessly against the wall, back to its normal state of brokenness, as though nothing at all had happened. He turned it over in his hand, then gave a second, sweeping glance to the room and donned his coat.
The mystery be drowned.
He had duties to perform.
≈
“You’ll never take me alive, I say!”
Marshall flinched at the sound of glass breaking against the interior of the locked cottage door.
“Commodore!” he somehow managed to yell over the racket. “I am a captain with the queen’s navy! I mean you no harm – I simply wish to speak with you!”
A string of squawks and curses burst through the boarded windows in response, but the door remained solidly bolted. Exhaling in frustration, Marshall returned his politely-removed hat to his head and squinted up at the adjoining lighthouse.
Maybe he should have brought that security escort after all.
“Has he threatened to blow it up yet?” Commander Gray Calum gestured to the building in broad amusement as he approached.
“Not yet,” Marshall replied with a roll of his eyes. “But I do have his firmest assurances that members of a covert military alliance have coded the beacon to transmit messages into outer space.”
Gray scratched the fur beneath his chin and stymied an outright laugh. “I’m assuming he can prove this?”
“He’ll swallow the evidence if we make any attempts at force.” Marshall nodded as if to stress the gravity of the situation. “I take it the two of you have met?”
“I’ve had the misfortune once or twice, yes. My aunt treated him for a broken wing a while back. It was several years ago, but you might say it made an impression.” He paused and lifted a hand to the ongoing ruckus. “I’m sure you can see why.”
Marshall raised an eyebrow. “You might have warned me.”
“Well, I would have if you hadn’t shoved off in such an all-fired hurry,” Gray countered in false indignation.
“I had no choice.” Marshall squared his shoulders. “One more minute with Her Majesty’s advisor and I’d have been threatening to blow up the lighthouse.”
“I sympathize, sir. How any member of a species with the word ‘kook’ in their name can act so haughty is beyond me. But leaving him with Ryder? She may eat him.”
The captain shrugged. “One can always hope.”
Tipping their heads back to examine the full height of the building, the two sighed over their current predicament.
“Are you…” Gray was the first to break the silence, but his words were hesitant. “Are you certain that’s the only reason you were in a rush, sir? Getting away from Eadric?”
Marshall shot a quick, noncommittal glance from the corner of his eye. “Would there be another reason?”
“Well, I don’t know, sir. You just seemed a little perturbed when you left your cabin, is all.”
With a thoughtful sniff, Marshall turned to face his first officer directly. “And you seemed likewise agitated when you came from below decks. What were you doing down there, Commander?”
Now it was Gray’s turn to shift his eyes. “I… nothing worth noting, sir. I was just taking care of something, is all. Forget I mentioned it.”
“Very well.” Marshall’s scrutiny disappeared on the instant as he jutted his jaw to the cottage door. “Are you ready, then?”
“For?”
“An attempt at force, naturally.”
Gray laughed, “Oh, you know me, sir. I only took this job so I could knock things down. On three?”
“One.” Marshall began in lieu of agreement, standing calmly as his first officer dug in his feet.
“Two.” They counted together.
On “Three!” they launched themselves forward in unison, slamming their full weight against the cottage door. It exploded inward with a crash that stunned even the overexcited Commodore into silence. Marshall carried his momentum into an expert roll that brought him to his feet while Gray struggled to make heads or tails of up. By the time he managed to pull himself from the floor, his captain had already brushed clean his uniform and now stood staring pointedly at a particular cluster of shadows in the rafters overhead.
“You can come down from there,” Marshall said. “We mean you no harm.”
For the longest time, the only response came in the form of ruffling feathers and creaking wood. Then there was a loud squawk of irritation as the monocle-wearing gull dropped to a lower beam for a better look. He stretched and strained his neck, quirking his head in rapid movements to eye them up and down.
“Rubbish!” The Commodore stomped his feet and screamed at last. “You mean me no harm? Broken down my door, you have! Come bearing weapons! Lies! Get out!”
“Calm down, you suspicious old bird.” Gray stepped forward and gestured to his uniform. “As you can see, we’re seafaring soldiers – of course we’re armed. And the door was your fault. If you’d let us in when first we arrived…”
“You look familiar,” the gull interrupted with an accusing glare, hopping closer on the beam and tipping until he was practically upside down. “Have you tried to kill me before?”
Holding his gaze, Gray slumped in a heavy sigh. “No, Commodore.” His words came out in tired monotone. “I’ve never tried to kill you.”
“You must be thinking of his aunt,” Marshall supplied with a hint of amusement in his voice.
His helpful statement must have triggered a memory, for the Commodore erupted from his beam in alarm, crying, “Not the surgeon!”
Marshall raised his eyebrow in his first officer’s direction.
“As I said, she fixed his wing,” Gray tried to explain, seeming both baffled and embarrassed. “Loony up there fell out of a window and refused to flap his left wing. Just the left one, mind you.”
“There was a grasshopper on it!” The Commodore shouted indignantly, as though grasshoppers were sufficient explanation for anything at all.
Marshall and Calum shared a look of consternation.
Suddenly, Her Majesty’s advisor didn’t seem so bad.
“Commodore.” Marshall’s authoritative tone sought to bring an end to the madness. “I can promise you that we are here on an honest errand. Neither of us poses any threat to you, your cottage, or your lighthouse. We were led here by an artifact. The Key to Mosque Hill. Surely you’ve heard of it?”
At the mention of the Key, the gull shifted, turning to eye them warily over one shoulder as he stammered, “Key? What? No… no I… I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“No one is suggesting that.” Captain Marshall lifted his hand in a calming gesture.
“And what else can be suggested by the presence of the queen’s men?!”
Gray’s exhalation was more of a low growl. “Dash it all, Commodore, you professed to being a queen’s man once too, don’t you remember? You had duty and purpose, and if there is any of it remaining in that scrambled egg you call a head, then you’ll help us.”
“What, what?” The bird whirled on them. “No… Rubbish! Lies and rubbish! You can’t have it!”
With that, the Commodore pelted them with a volley of woodchips and rafter dust. When they crouched to protect themselves from the assault, he dropped from the rafters, snapped open his wings, and darted over their heads into the adjacent lighthouse, locking the door at his back.
Dusting themselves off yet again, the two stood and sighed.
“Well, I think it’s safe to say he knows something.”
Marshall nodded in partial agreement, drawing his fine sword and turning for the door. Hefting a chair with his free hand, he brought it crashing down on the handle and simultaneously planted his foot in the center of the door. It gave way with a splintering sound, dropping the doorknob to the floor beneath his feet. The open-beaked Commodore stared up at him with wide eyes – too stunned to react before the captain grabbed him by the ascot and hoisted him from the ground without any effort at all.
The entire display couldn’t have lasted more than a second.
“I regret that our exchange has taken this turn, Commodore. As I have said – three times now – we didn’t come here to harm you. But I’m afraid your paranoid fears have spawned something of a self-fulfilling prophecy. You see, my queen and my kingdom will soon be in jeopardy. We came here to put a stop to it. And whatever it is that you know regarding the Key, the Gateway, or the location of Mosque Hill may be enough to prevent the downfall of a civilization. I cannot believe that you are so dedicated to your delusions that you would risk the fate of Secora simply to prove their efficacy. So I will ask you for the final time to calm down and give us a chance at a civil conversation before this goes any further.” Though Marshall’s sword was held loosely in his hand with the point to the floor, the slight tension in the muscle of his arm was enough to add, I will use this, if I must.
The commodore’s eyes flitted to the sword. After a minute or so of pointless struggle, the bird tipped his beak in frightened compliance and Marshall lowered him onto the lighthouse stairs. He couldn’t help but notice that the gull had fallen still, his gaze fixed on the chain and bit of metal protruding from Marshall’s coat. With careful movements, the captain sheathed his sword and pulled his father’s medallion from the inside of his vest.
“You’re staring at this? You’ve seen this before?”
Quirking his head in an unreadable gesture, the commodore nodded.
Marshall’s voice was strained. “Masguard was here?”
Again, the crazy bird nodded, this time reaching to brush the tarnished face of the pendant with wingtips that trembled in anxiety or reverence. “It’s you… you are the child of the Wanderer. The lonely prodigy.” His eyes turned to Marshall with a new respect. “Masguard’s son.”
Calum took an unconscious step back.
Marshall didn’t move an inch.
“That news shouldn’t have reached you yet,” the commander objected. “Marshall’s own crew hasn’t even been told.”
“Masguard,” Marshall concluded. “My father told you to watch for me, didn’t he? That you would know me by this medallion? He knew I would come.”
“Yes,” the gull nodded. “Knew you would come. Had to be you. No one else to follow, for none will make the choice. Many more will search in vain, but one will hear the Voice.” The commodore gave an uncomfortable shudder. “You are the one. The only one who can find it.”
Marshall furrowed his brow. “Find what? The Gateway?”
In lieu of a response, the Commodore began to cough.
Then to regurgitate.
Though the captain seemed unperturbed, Gray averted his eyes and tried not to look disgusted.
“Are you alright?” Marshall asked. Surely he hadn’t gripped the nutter’s neck that hard?
But the Commodore looked neither pained nor embarrassed when he turned to them and hiccupped, a saliva-coated key in his outstretched wing.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” the commander gagged and muttered beneath his breath. “He really did swallow the evidence.”
Lifting a brow in Calum’s direction, Marshall sighed and plucked the key from the slime with careful fingers. The Commodore turned to the stair at his back. There, he scratched furiously at one of the boards with clawed feet. After a great deal of effort, he hopped to a higher stair and gestured, having managed to pry the board loose.
“He left this.” The gull hiccupped again. “Masguard. Left it for you.”
When Marshall made no move to look, the Commodore frowned, flew behind him, and pushed. Though the bird was less than half his bodyweight, and nowhere near strong enough to move him by force, the captain stepped forward out of courtesy, earning a grin of spurious accomplishment from his host. Stooping to the step, he saw a small, latched chest, covered in dust. He brushed it off and lifted it to the stair above, where he placed the key in the lock and then pulled back, hesitant.
All around him were signs that these steps had scarcely been touched in more than a decade – the rusted metalwork, the cracks in the mortar. The commodore had no need of them. Nor did anyone else, for that matter, because no one ever came here.
No one, except Masguard.
The last person to kneel on this stair, over this chest, was his father.
Closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath, Marshall turned the key until it clicked in the lock.
“He wanted you to have it,” the Commodore said as Marshall drew the map out of the chest and into the light. “Only you. Said you would need it, when you came. Wanted you to know where to find him.”
It was that last sentence which caught the captain off-guard.
“What?” Marshall whipped around, map and chest forgotten on the stair behind him. “What are you talking about?” He stepped forward, his words insistent and determined in a way that made his earlier display seem weak, at best. The commodore fell back, butting himself against the shattered doorway, squawking and staring with wide eyes. At a gesture from Calum, Marshall drew himself upright and continued with a forced sense of calm, “Are you saying this map will take me to Masguard?”
Confused, the bird frowned. “No, the map will take you to Mosque Hill.”
“Then…” Marshall seemed hesitant to ask. “Where is my father?”
At that, the commodore laughed and splayed his wings, as though the answer should have been obvious all along. “He is in your compass.”
It took several moments for the disappointment to settle on Marshall’s face. Then he swallowed and looked to the floor. Calum offered a nod of sympathy as the captain turned to gather map and chest alike, sparing an extra moment to return the displaced board to its proper location.
“Thank you for the map, Commodore.” The stoic, military clip having returned to his voice, Marshall stood and tipped his head to the keeper of the lighthouse. “You have my word that we will put it to good use.”
“Your use,” the bird shrugged, seeming sad. “Your business. No more secrets. Don’t care.”
The captain gave him a long and searching look, then turned to take his leave. “Indeed, then. Farewell.”
Commander Calum moved to follow, but paused to clap the gull on the back as he passed. “You see, Commodore. You had nothing to worry about. We’re leaving Pelham Point intact. Well,” he glanced quickly and apologetically at the damaged entryway, concluding with a wince, “Mostly intact.”
“Pelham Point?” The Commodore stopped in his tracks, quirking his head and gazing up at the lighthouse in much the same way that Calum had looked at the shattered door. “Not Pelham Point anymore. No. This… this is Forever Isle.”
≈
On the deck of the Albatross, Gray moved to stand alongside Marshall at the prow.
“Well. You just can’t buy entertainment like that, can you?” He said. “The Commodore wasn’t always like that, you know. According to my aunt, he was practically respectable once.” He smiled, hoping for some sign that the captain was interested in sharing his amusement. When none came, he bowed his head and moved as if to leave, offering, “The chest is in your cabin, sir, whenever you’re ready for it.”
Marshall stopped him.
“Does the lighthouse seem odd to you, Commander?”
Gray returned to his side and followed his line of sight to the burning lamp of warning that cut through the fog in an odd rhythm.
The commander leaned on the rail and squinted in confusion. “That’s not a normal rotation for the beam, is it?”
Marshall shook his head, watching, counting.
It was a code.
Gray couldn’t help but shiver when the captain deciphered its message aloud.
“Snuff out… the… son.”
Then the lighthouse exploded in a ball of fire.