A/N: Hi, guys! The Mountain is almost done, and I felt like checking in with this Maeve, hope you don't mind.
The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
Maeve pulls herself slowly out of her narrow little bunk, blinking as the pale light of a crowning dawn filters through a single chink in the decking above her. She hurts, and as she dresses she moves sluggishly, hindered by sleepy clumsiness and her uncomfortable body. She breathes deeply but the stuffy air inside her cabin does little to dispel her aches and thus little to ease her mind. She wants to be up top, in the freshness of a new morning, before the scorching southern sun begins its relentless march across the sky.
This is the second night in a row she accidentally fell asleep in her own bunk while waiting for the rest of the crew to settle. She can't make the silent trek across the galley to Sinbad, to his more comfortable bed and waiting arms, until she's sure everyone except the man on night watch is asleep, and that wait is getting more and more difficult. She wants to be with him—she doesn't sleep nearly as well without his firm arms holding her tightly, the very male scent of salty sweat and hot skin surrounding her. But lately her body has been craving sleep, aching for it like a habitual drunkard aches for wine, and for two nights running she hasn't been able to resist its call. Waking alone, after first light, makes her irritable. She wants to feel his rough-soft grip down to her bones, the way he squeezes her tight against his chest for a long, perfect moment when she moves to leave his bed, his mouth seeking hers sleepily in the dark, as reluctant to release her as she is to go.
She can't have that moment of morning sweetness when she sleeps alone, and the loss fouls her mood. She wants him, and the few hours of total dark and silence in the middle of the night are all she's allowed. That her body's new insistence on sleep denies her even this makes her inordinately angry. Not at him, but at her own weakness. At this whole convoluted, wretched situation. Very much at Scratch and Rumina, who forced them here in the first place.
Her body hurts, too, and not the good, lingering ache after a well-spent night with her sailor, no matter how silent they have to be. Her breasts are sore, her back is sore, and her whole body feels puffy and uncomfortable—ungainly, though to her own eye she doesn't look discernibly different. Her belly remains flat, and while she swears her clothes fit a little differently than they used to, they don't not fit. She scowls, wishing for someone she could gripe at.
Drawing her knife, she crouches and marks a little notch in the lowest wooden plank next to her door. Normally she has no real need to mark the passage of days, but she's done so since returning from the teas. It helps her keep track of both this pregnancy and the time left before Samhain. On that night, Scratch will attempt to collect Sinbad's soul. Maeve's entire focus right now is ensuring that does not happen. Sinbad needs her. Yes, another woman might be able to break this curse, but Antoine and that insufferable al-Alawy both said that the closer the bond, the greater the magic. She loves him, and she's his best chance. That means the fate of his soul rests solely in her hands, in her ability to keep their child both alive and secret.
Each little tally notched into the wood near the base of the door is one more day she's done her job, one more day she's succeeded in keeping that little spark of life inside her safe. She breathes softly in the near-black of her cabin, touching the little notches in the wood with a fingertip. It's been two moons since the teas. She still has a very long way to go.
But she's going to do it. She hears the man on mess duty begin preparing breakfast as she shoves her feet into her boots and checks the motion of her dagger in its sheath. She's Sinbad's best chance, and she refuses to lose him. She didn't come south looking for a man, but now that she has one she will not let their enemies take him away. He's too important—not just to her, but to the world. The good he does may be small in the grand scheme of things, but the fact that he does it is not. Dim-Dim taught her enough to understand that. The world needs him.
And so does she, as reluctant as she is to admit it. She fought this bond wildly at first, like a young horse fighting a tether, but struggling did nothing to change it. She pulls some of her hair back so it doesn't blow into her face so badly, binding it with a loose bit of twine. She wanted no man, no céile, just her beloved brother restored to his true form, tall and proud at her side once more. How she ended up here, with child and bonded permanently to its father, abandoned by her Dermott, she's not entirely sure. Things just sort of...happened. And then this mess with Scratch and Rumina was dropped firmly into her lap, forcing her to make a choice before she otherwise would have. She wasn't ready to admit how much she loves her captain, wasn't ready to bind herself so thoroughly with another person. Certainly she wasn't ready to reconsider having children, which she long ago vowed never to do.
But Sinbad.
Weighed against the potential loss of his soul, there was no other option. But that doesn't mean she isn't resentful sometimes, in moments like these, that she was forced. Not by him, but by Scratch and Rumina. By the curse. Maybe they were always meant to meet. Maybe this child she carries was always meant to be hers. But her brother is furious, so furious that he abandoned her—left her alone for the first time in her life. Yes, she loves Sinbad. Deeply. She's his, down to her bones, whether she wants to admit it or not. But in agreeing to save him, she's lost the other man she loves, the brother who has been by her side literally since the day she was born. That wasn't part of the deal when it was presented to her. Whether she would have chosen differently, had she known Dermott's reaction, she's afraid to ask herself. In these quiet moments, when she's alone and can't escape her thoughts, all she can do is cling to Dim-Dim's comforting words. He always said everything happens for a reason. She's skeptical, but when despair hits she holds to those words as if to a lifeline. She's helpless to do anything else.
Bracing herself for the day ahead, Maeve rises to her feet and lifts the latch on her door. She's intent on the open deck and fresh air, the promise of a new morning.
The first breath she takes destroys that plan.
The smell of smoke from the cooking fire and the hot, starchy scent of cooking grain make her stomach lurch violently. She hastily slams the door, shutting herself back into the stuffy darkness of her tiny cabin. Hell. She sinks onto the hard wooden edge of her bunk, breathing deeply as sweat instantly pricks her skin and her body shakes with the force of holding back a sudden, fierce wave of nausea. Unless she can retch silently, a trick she's doubtful of, she can't succumb.
Her stomach has been slightly off since the run-in with the poisoner in Cyprus, but she chalked it up to aftereffects of the monkshood. This is not, and she knows it. She struggles as her belly rebels, her body warring with her willpower, her irritable mood lighting into full-blown fury. This is a side effect of pregnancy most women encounter, but it's a particularly unwelcome one while she's trying to hide her condition. If she starts spewing her guts every time she smells food, everyone will know. Even oblivious Doubar will know. And that spells disaster.
She's never been one to loll in bed, but she drops to her side and lifts her legs onto the straw mattress, breathing slow and deep, concentrating hard on her inner musculature, imposing her iron will on her body as she has so many times before, in so many other circumstances. She forced her body to learn to fight when she was a child, pushed it beyond what it thought it could do. She's ignored hunger and injury and fatigue more times than she can remember, working through pain, pushing past weariness. She can do it again now, she tells herself firmly. She has no choice. If Scratch and Rumina learn she's carrying Sinbad's child they won't hesitate to kill her, and her death means the loss of three souls: hers, her child's, and Sinbad's. She can't let that happen, especially not over something so spitefully banal as an upset stomach. Maeve closes her eyes, focusing inward. To keep them all alive, her will has to be stronger than her body. She simply has no choice.
But hell, this feels awful. Not just her belly but the rest of her body, too. Her head swims, dizzy and suddenly seasick, very aware of the rolling ship under her as she's never been before. Cold sweat drenches her as her heart races and she feels like she can't get a good breath. Even behind her latched door the stuffy air now smells like food and smoke, and while these are usually comforting smells, promising a full belly and a moment of rest, in this moment they're intolerable. She breathes through her mouth as her whole body tenses against this feeling.
And as she fights nausea, telling her traitorous body that it will not win, she wishes for her sister. She's still furious with Keely and steadfastly not speaking to her, but Keely could fix this. Maeve knows she could. She's done it for Wren, done it for any woman who asked. But going to Keely would mean apologizing, enduring her snippy comments, and probably another fight before finally making up, and Maeve just doesn't have the physical or emotional energy right now. She can't.
A gentle knock sounds at her door. She buries her head in the crook of her arm, preferring the smell of her own skin to the scent of cooking food, and wills Sinbad to go away. It's him; it has to be. Doubar is furious with her—when he's not picking fights he pretends she doesn't exist—and everyone else knows better than to bother her. But not Sinbad. He's not afraid of her prickly temper, and she knows he must be worried. She didn't come to him last night and she's usually up before dawn, so he has some right to be concerned. But she can't handle his attention right now. Her stomach lurches as the ship drops down the windward side of a slightly larger swell, and a small whimper escapes her.
After a moment she hears not Sinbad's voice, but Doubar's. "Since when does the captain of a ship have to rouse a crewmember?" the first mate demands, grumpy and surly so early in the morning.
"Since that crewmember was poisoned near death," Sinbad snaps back, just as surly. He's right outside her door, as she suspected. He'll open it in a moment. She really, really wishes he wouldn't.
Honestly, she's all but recovered from that brush with Rumina's poisoner. It's been a little over a week and her sore throat has healed. Her belly was on its way until this morning's sudden setback. He has no reason to continue to worry, but he's Sinbad, so he does anyway.
And now he lifts the latch and opens her door, as she knew he would. Cool, early sunlight through the overhead hatches streams gently into the room. He stands just inside the doorway for a moment before stepping forward, crouching by her bedside. His hands rise and then abruptly fall again as he forces himself not to reach for her.
"Mo chailín," he says, soft voice laced with concern. Under normal circumstances it melts her, but right now all she wants is to be alone in her misery. She can smell him, salt-fresh from being on deck, but the open door also brings the smells of smoke and food—not just cooking grain but pickled fish now, too, and she wants to both weep and kill him at the same time.
What she looks like she has no idea, but one glance at her in the light is enough for him to rise swiftly from his crouch. "I'll get Firouz."
No, he absolutely will not. The last thing she needs right now is to be poked and prodded and gawked over by their resident scientist. She respects Firouz's convictions and loves him like a brother...and she wants him nowhere near her. She shakes her head, jaw clamped tightly shut, and points imperiously at the door. She only hopes she's emphatic enough, because if she opens her mouth she's going to retch all over him. Which would serve him right, but be otherwise ruinous.
"But you need help," he tries to protest.
She does not. Women deal with this every day. And anyway, Firouz will only make things worse. Keely could help but she can't have her sister right now, so the only thing Sinbad can do is leave her the hell alone. She buries her head back in her arms and studiously refuses to budge.
He shouldn't touch her in the light and he knows this, but she feels his hand on her hair anyway. She wants to shove it away. The touch of another person physically hurts as she struggles to keep her belly under control. Her world shrinks to this single fight, this sole purpose: not spewing her guts on her worried captain as he hovers and makes things worse.
Finally he leaves, removing his hand from her hair and striding from the room, but her relief is short-lived. He returns a moment later hauling Firouz behind him, just as she told him not to.
She's going to kill them. As soon as this spell passes and she feels better, she's going to kill both of them.
"What seems to be the trouble?" Firouz asks, affably enough.
Right now that open door is. She can smell sour, vinegary pickled fish, hot smoke from the cooking fire. The boiling grain is less offensive but still overwhelming. And people keep bothering her, Sinbad hovering, Firouz expecting an answer to his question, as she struggles to maintain control over her traitorous body.
Her stomach heaves as the ship pitches; her whole body surges as she manages not to vomit by the thinnest thread of control. She knows she'd feel better if she did, but she can't. She refuses.
"Oh." Firouz sounds chagrined as he sees her struggle. "I thought the effects of the aconite had passed."
They have. This is something else, but she can't tell him so. She can't tell anyone.
"Do you want to go up on deck? You may feel better there." Firouz mercifully backs away.
She considers. If they try to move her right now she may lose this battle against her stomach, but if she stays here, amid the intolerable smell of the cooking food, she's going to lose it anyway. She tightens her jaw, swallows a mouthful of saliva, and nods tightly.
Sinbad's hands are gentle as he lifts her. She doesn't like being picked up as if she were a child, but in this moment she can't make it on her own. She clings to him, burying her nose in the material covering his shoulder. The nubby texture of his vest isn't pleasant but the shelter from the onslaught on her senses is. She closes her eyes and does her best to ignore the sway of his steps, holding her breath and managing, miraculously, not to hurl on him as he bears her up the stairs and into the light.
"Just a moment," he says, cradling her against him. "Firouz is bringing you something to sit on."
She doesn't need something to sit on; the deck is just fine. All she wants is fresh, clean air. She can still smell smoke as the hatches ventilate the galley, but the early morning breeze helps immensely. The air isn't cool, exactly, but it's fresh, salt-clean, and it's moving. Wind blows lightly against her sweaty skin, and it helps. She takes a deeper, experimental breath. That's better. Not perfect—not even close. But better.
"Here." Firouz's voice sounds from behind her. "The best Rongar and I could do on short notice."
She reluctantly opens her eyes, squinting in the early sunlight as Sinbad carefully lowers her onto several sacks—part of their latest cargo. Inside is horsehair, she can tell from the feel and smell—a valuable commodity, if not a fancy one. The smell is neither strong nor offensive, at least not right now, and she gladly curls on her side amongst the rough sacking, closing her eyes again and breathing deeply, letting the clean smell of the sea ease a little of the nausea.
"Do you want water?" Sinbad asks. He's hovering again, but out of the stuffy atmosphere below deck she's better able to tolerate it. She shakes her head infinitesimally. She doesn't want anything except the moving air and some space.
"Leave her be for a while," Firouz says to his captain. "She should come around. I had no idea she was still suffering from the aconite. Ordinarily a poisoning that severe could take moons to fully resolve, or never at all, but since she had magical intervention I can't say with any certainty what to expect."
As the bout of nausea begins to recede, Maeve feels a very ironic and very unwelcome flash of gratitude towards Rumina. Unawares, by poisoning her, the witch gave her an excellent excuse to hide behind. Ordinarily, suspicions of pregnancy would rain down on a woman of her age stricken with inexplicable bouts of nausea, but now she has a pretext even Firouz will accept. If Rumina knew, she'd curse herself for providing it.
"Breakfast!" the man on mess duty calls, his voice carrying easily through the hatches.
"I'll stay with her," Sinbad says swiftly. "You go."
She manages to shake her head, her eyes squinting open to look at him. They still have to be so, so careful, and being alone together, even on deck with a man at the tiller, isn't a good idea. His hovering will piss off Rumina if she's watching, and they don't need any more of her meddling.
"There's no need to miss your breakfast if she doesn't mind. The sea's calm and Abdul is at the tiller. She's in no danger," Firouz says.
Maeve is glad the scientist agrees with her. Her belly is slowly calming, but right now she'd rather be alone. She doesn't want to talk, doesn't want to be touched. She just wants some quiet, and the only time that's possible on deck are midnights and mealtimes.
Sinbad sighs. He's not happy about this, but he knows as well as she does the danger they're in and how poorly he hides his feelings. His hand touches her hair once more, light and gentle. It's tolerable. "I'll save your rations for you."
In this moment she absolutely never wants to see, smell, or swallow food ever again, but she has no energy to argue with him. She lets her eyes close, her tense muscles beginning to relax as the nausea eases.
They leave her to the climbing sun and the gentle wind, which is all she wants. She concentrates on her breaths, growing gradually deeper as her belly calms. Rope creaks. Water rushes below. These sounds were once alien to her but they've become the comforting backdrop to her life. Wind dries the sweat on her skin, cooling her even as the sun rises higher, hotter, promising another scorching day. She welcomes it. It's better than the endless rain and gloom of her homeland. As a child she didn't really know what it felt like to be truly warm—summers were brief, the northern sun weak. She refuses to hate the southern heat, having known the lack of it.
Voices drift to her from below as the crew settles around the galley table. They're sleepy with the early morning, muted. She hears Sinbad say she's unwell, followed by a mutter of contempt from Doubar.
This rift with the first mate isn't something she foresaw when she agreed to help Sinbad fight this curse. Of course, she didn't foresee losing her own brother, either. Breathing softly, she wraps her arms around her torso and hugs herself. She's been at war with the world since she was born, fighting for her right to exist, to survive in an environment that tried very hard to thwart her. Right now she feels like she's fighting a very different sort of war, one she never meant to. She's fighting with Dermott. Doubar. Keely. It feels like she's losing her family, one by one. Whether this is part of Scratch's plan or merely a terrible byproduct she doesn't know, but it's killing her. And relationships, while strong, are also fragile. Once shattered, they're difficult to piece back together. She has to face the fact that, even after this fight with Scratch is over, these bonds may be wrecked past salvage. No matter how much she loves them. Needs them.
Dermott left in a fit of temper, raging that she chose Sinbad over him, that she no longer cared about freeing him from Rumina's curse. She expected him to return within a few days, sullen but remorseful for the hurtful things he said. They're siblings; they fight. They get over it. But that was two moons ago, and her brother has yet to come back. Each day the hope that he will dies a little more.
Doubar, the cheerful giant she took to almost immediately upon joining the Nomad's crew, is understandably upset that she says she will not bear Sinbad's child and therefore save his soul from Scratch. She gets it. His love for his brother comes first, and will always come first. But his bitter animosity still hurts, as does the ease with which he swallowed her story, if she's honest. Rongar didn't. Rongar knows perfectly well that she's with child. Whether he guesses the reason for the lie, she can't say, but she suspects so. He may not be a genius like Firouz, but he's extremely intelligent, very aware of what goes on around him, and he knows people in a way the scientist never will. Her lie didn't fool him.
But it fooled Doubar, and even though that's what she intended, she can admit to herself that it stings. She thought he knew her better than that. Doesn't he know she'd never back down with Sinbad's soul on the line?
Apparently not. And that hurts. But there's nothing she can do about it. She can't tell him the truth, and trying to make up with him without it will do no good. He thinks she betrayed Sinbad. She's a traitor as far as he's concerned. Whether that can be mended after Samhain, after the battle with Scratch, remains to be seen. Sinbad believes the birth of their child will soothe his brother's feelings, and they'll be able to start again. Maeve hugs herself, breathing slowly. She'd like to believe him, but she just isn't so sure. Doubar is a simple man, and generally a happy one. This struggle for his brother's soul has already pulled and twisted him, making him feel things he would not ordinarily feel, think things he would not ordinarily think. The birth of a child can heal any number of wounds—Maeve has witnessed that for herself—but she doesn't know that it can fix Doubar.
Or herself. She still doesn't know what to feel about being with child, the prospect of impending motherhood. Sinbad thinks she doesn't want children, which isn't precisely true. It's more complicated than that. She adores her nephews and nieces, the little monsters running wild on Breakwater. But this world is a cruel one, bloody and often merciless. She never wanted to subject an innocent soul to it.
She stares at the glittering expanse of ocean, a thin strip of land visible nearby. It's Crete, their next stop as they continue their search for Talia. She's also very unsure that she'll be any good as a mother. Keely had a mother until the massacre at Brí Leith claimed her. Wren had one, too. Long enough to remember. Long enough to learn. Maeve did not. She was raised by a well-meaning but clueless older brother and, for a time, by fair but largely emotionless scholars. Her only memory of her own mother is of her violent death at the hands of her father. This is not a legacy she wishes to hand down, not a cycle she wants to repeat. Despite the best of intentions, she's terrified that she will. She knows how to wrangle children; she had to learn quickly as Wren's brood grew and Keely added to it. But being a mother is more than that, and this deeper, more fundamental aspect of motherhood is what she fears she's lacking. Unless it will come with time, just as milk will come to feed her baby, she doesn't know if she can fix this lack. She doubts it's something she can learn from a book.
The door to the galley opens, discharging men onto the deck. Maeve pulls herself into a sitting position, testing her stomach's tolerance of each movement before she commits fully to it. She still doesn't feel great, but it's bearable. She hears Doubar relieve the man at the tiller, watches as Rongar and another man adjust the mainsail. They'll be landing on Crete today. Sinbad will put up a fuss about her leaving the ship, just as he did in Lefka two days after her poisoning, but it will feel good to have solid ground under her feet for a little while. Even if the reason is looking for Talia.
"Should you be up?" Her captain's voice sounds from behind her.
"I'm only halfway up," she says without turning, neatly sidestepping the question. If these bouts of sickness are going to continue, as she suspects they will, she has to find a way to deal with them. She can't just be incapacitated for however long it takes her belly to reconcile with her body's new tenant.
He plops down next to her on the sacks of horsehair. "Do you want to go back to bed?"
"No. I feel better up here." The smell below will still be too strong; she knows that without even trying.
He switches languages abruptly, something he's getting much better at doing. His syntax is still clumsy, his declensions atrocious, and at times he's difficult to follow, but his vocabulary has improved substantially. "I worry when you don't come to me. At night, I mean. But I never want to disturb you. I want it to be your choice."
His concern can often feel stifling, but in this instance it warms her. She smiles in spite of herself. It's true, he's never barged into her cabin at night; it's always the other way around. His captain's quarters are nicer, and he has a bigger bunk that can easily hold two adult bodies. She's not sure her little bunk could, but at least it's better than the hammocks the rest of the crew use. She's lucky in that respect—she and Dim-Dim were given the use of the tiny passenger cabin when they first boarded the Nomad, and after her master disappeared Sinbad never asked her to vacate it. She moved from the floor to the vacant bed, which is more comfortable, but she'd far rather have her master back and sleep on wooden planks for the rest of her days.
Sinbad bends one knee, drawing it close to his chest. His hands move; he wants to touch her, but knows he can't. She knows his tics so well by now, but she's a little afraid a spying Rumina might, too. "I'm sorry," she says, and she is, for so much. "I've been falling asleep when I shouldn't. I didn't mean to worry you." He worries too much, yes, but she doesn't need to make it worse.
"When you should," he corrects gently. "It's not right of me to expect you to work all day, stay up most of the night, and carry a child on top of everything else. Especially not when you were just poisoned."
When he puts it like that, it's hard to argue with him. Still, "That stunt on Cyprus is in the past. You need to get over it."
"How can I when you're still sick?"
"I'm not sick," she says, doing her best not to snap at him. "I'm pregnant. Rumina didn't do this, you did."
His mouth snaps shut. He looks at her cautiously, weighing his response. She's a little amused. She's not angry, which he seems to be afraid of. She's more or less resigned to not feeling particularly well for the foreseeable future. She just needs to figure out how to deal with it. Eventually the poisoning excuse is going to wear thin.
"What can I do?" he asks finally, which is a fairly diplomatic and therefore safe reply. She considers.
"I don't know," she says honestly. Keely could help, but she refuses to ask. This is an inconvenience, not a disaster. She can handle it without her sister. "Ginger might help. Or limes. Maybe." She wipes her palm across her forehead, clearing the little tendrils of hair that stick to her skin.
"I won't buy anything for you in a market right now, but I'll do my best. If I can get them for you, I will. What else?"
She shrugs. She doesn't entirely know. Keely uses magic. Maeve can look in the books Dim-Dim left her, but she's been through them all multiple times and she doesn't remember any spells that would be even remotely useful. "Just keeping away from those smells for now, I guess. I think I'll have to stop eating with the crew for a while."
While at sea they live according to a fairly strict schedule, working and eating and resting at set times, to ensure they reach their destination as quickly and safely as possible. Deviation on most ships is not tolerated, and Maeve knows this, but most ships don't have pregnant women aboard.
"You do what you have to do," Sinbad says without hesitation. "You have my full permission, if that's what you're asking. Sleep when you need to. Eat when you need to. I'd take you off duty completely, but you'd kill me."
Damn right she would. She's always pulled her own weight, and she refuses to let a baby change that. She's not a concubine and she will not be kept like one.
"Doubar won't like it," she says, glancing behind her at the man at the tiller.
"Doubar doesn't like anything right now, so trying to appease him is pointless."
This is undeniably true, but Maeve hates doing something that she knows will aggravate him all the same. She doesn't see how she has much choice, though. She needs to rise early and be up on deck before the cook starts breakfast to escape being trapped like she was this morning, and she'll have to learn to accommodate whatever else sets her off as she encounters it. She did not grow up at the knee of older women and she has no real idea how long this sickness might last. Not straight through to Samhain, she hopes.
"I'm sorry, mo chailín," Sinbad says softly, drawing her attention back to the present.
"For what? I told you before, this is life. I just have to learn to deal with it." She may gripe about him doing this to her, but in truth the fault is Scratch's. Rumina's. Not his. And she was a very enthusiastic participant in the act of begetting, so she's as much to blame as he is. She gathers her feet under her and rises. Her head spins slightly, but she's upright. She's fine.
Sinbad stands an instant after she does. She can feel his worried gaze, how his eyes linger on her even though his hands can't. For the first time, she's forced to wonder whether they're really fooling anyone besides Doubar. Rumina is evil, but she's not stupid. Neither is Scratch.
But Maeve is still alive, and ultimately that's her reassurance that this plan, however desperate, is working. She lives. Her child lives. For one more day, one more notch in the wall. If Rumina really did suspect, they'd all be dead.
Slowly she bends, picking up the rough sacks of horsehair, bulky but light.
"I can do that," Sinbad offers, but she shakes her head.
"I'm fine now." Until the next time, whenever that will be. "Go on. It's okay."
He doesn't seem entirely convinced, as he never is these days, but he climbs the aft stairs with only a little sullen reluctance. Maeve opens the door and steps down into the galley, cautious in case her stomach can't handle it.
The dark air is close and stuffy, but no worse than usual. She'll live. She heads to the hold to put the sacks back where they belong. She's effectively blind after the bright morning above deck and she blinks as she walks, bumping softly against the wall as the ship rocks and bobs. She's never really been seasick before and she isn't now, but the movement of the ship definitely didn't help when her belly was already in misery.
She opens the door to the cargo hold and tosses in the sacks, heedless of where they land. They're soft; they won't hurt anything. The first one falls with almost no sound. The second elicits a small grunt, and she's pretty sure horsehair doesn't grunt.
Her first instinct is to grab for her sword, which she isn't wearing—it's on the rack with the others. Instead of reaching for the knife hidden in her boot she opens her hand, palm up, and concentrates. A ball of fire appears, cradled in her grasp, warm and bright and welcoming. It illuminates the packed storeroom.
Maeve isn't sure exactly what she expects to see. A monster or dangerous creature of some sort, perhaps—maybe that wouldn't be her first guess on another ship, but this is the Nomad. She braces for a fight, blinking in the sudden flare of firelight.
"Oh, it's you." Hazel eyes blink back at her, and a figure unfolds from the shadows behind a stack of barrels. "When that scientist of yours burst in earlier he woke me up. I've been locked in for days! I've got a bone to pick with your captain for that."
Not a monster. Not quite. "Talia," Maeve says, voice flat. She should be surprised, she guesses, but she isn't. "Should I even ask why you're playing stowaway?"
"You should," the pirate says with a broad grin, slapping her on the shoulder as if they're old friends, which they manifestly are not. "It's a great story. Where's Sinbad? He'll want to hear it, too." She pushes past her into the hallway.
Maeve lets the fire in her hand dissipate. Sinbad wouldn't be happy if she burned a hole in his ship lobbing it at Talia. She closes the door of the hold and, full of misgiving, follows the pirate back into the sunlight.
Her feelings regarding Talia are complicated, and even though they've been searching for her for some time, seeing her walking the Nomad so casually is jarring. Maeve frowns. She doesn't trust the Black Rose, and never has. She was proven right during their last encounter, which the rest of the crew laughed off as ultimately harmless. Maeve doesn't feel the same. They managed to accomplish their goal of freeing the unwitting parishioners from the hold of the deceitful priests of Kratos, but they almost didn't, thanks to Talia. And Sinbad almost became breakfast for a monster, besides. Maeve doesn't consider that harmless.
But the rest of the crew seems to, and Doubar wants her around, so Maeve will hold her tongue. For now. Until she can't anymore. It's true that having another woman around will help keep Rumina's attention off of her, but she has no idea what sort of trouble Talia might cause in the meantime. In general, and also with Sinbad.
"Sinbad, you old sea dog! Where have you been keeping yourself?" Talia hollers, cupping her hands around her eyes as she emerges into the glare.
"Talia!" Doubar booms, joyful for the first time in...a long time. Maeve's heart hurts as she watches the big man hustle down the steps, lifting the pirate off her feet with the force of his greeting.
Sinbad follows Doubar, his feet a little slower, and he touches the small of Maeve's back gently as he comes to a halt beside her, as if offering reassurance. She's grateful, despite the forbidden touch. What will happen now that Talia's on board, she doesn't know, but she knows full well that she won't like it. Sinbad hasn't outright admitted to a prior physical relationship with the pirate, but he doesn't have to. Their body language makes it plain—the easy way they interact, the enthusiastic kiss Talia greeted him with the last time they met. It shouldn't have been a problem back then, as he was not Maeve's to be jealous of, but it was anyway, and remains so now. It's not the only reason she dislikes Talia, but it's certainly one of them. She's glad of his silent reassurance now. What he plans to do with Talia, what he plans to ask of her, Maeve doesn't know. That's his mess to figure out. All she knows is that he's hers, and she's not willing to share.
"Where did the Black Rose sprout from?" he asks, torn between wariness and amusement.
Maeve holds her hands up, refusing to take the blame. "I hit her with a sack. That's all I know."
Doubar's crushing the little pirate with the strength of his greeting. "Do you have any idea how long we've been looking for you?" he demands.
"First I've heard of it," she groans. "Put me down, tubby, you're crushing my lungs." She laughs as he releases her.
"You want to tell me what you're doing making an appearance on my ship just now?" Sinbad asks. "We're days out of Lefka. Or have you been stowed away longer?"
"Nah, just since then." Talia moves, arms reaching for him in greeting. She's swift, but he's prepared and seems to feel as Maeve does. He evades her embrace gracefully and she ends up with a handshake instead, which puzzles her for a moment, but she shakes it off. "I'd have come out sooner, but apparently you keep your hold locked from the outside."
"It's standard procedure on any ship," Firouz protests. "Sinbad and I both keep a key."
"Do you also keep food? I've been living on the apricots in your hold for days."
These are luckily not cargo, which would be docked from their pay, but some of the supplies from Antoine. Maeve doesn't particularly like Breakwater supplying the Nomad, but this agreement is between Sinbad and Antoine. Not her. She's got enough to worry about without antagonizing Ant, too, and she has no better solution to offer. Not after Rumina's threat to keep poisoning them, Maeve specifically. Arguing would be of little use, anyway. Sinbad's taking that threat very seriously. He barely allowed her off the ship at Lefka and he wouldn't let her consume anything, not even a drink of water. Especially not the water. One the one hand, Maeve can't help but feel flattered by this new protectiveness. On the other, it's driving her crazy.
"Tell me what you were doing in my hold first," Sinbad says now. He's tired and anxious, just as she is. Just as they all are, to an extent. Her men may not be bearing the burden of a child, but they're carrying the burden of this curse, the threat that in a matter of moons they could lose Sinbad forever. No one is happy. They haven't been for a long time.
"Let the girl eat," Doubar protests. "Look at her, she's famished."
"Practically speaking, she's not," Firouz cuts in, "though I shudder to think what days of nothing but apricots does to a stomach."
Talia reaches out, ruffling his curly hair. He pulls back, warring between surprise and affront. "Don't worry about me, Mr. Genius. I have a belly of steel."
"Nice to hear someone does," Doubar mutters, casting an irritable look in Maeve's direction.
Sinbad's mouth opens to snap, once more, at his brother, though it does no good. Maeve touches his sleeve lightly, and for the moment he desists. She's tired of hearing the brothers bicker. The festering animosity between them breaks her heart even more than Doubar's attacks on her, and she needs it to stop. This ship feels like one of Firouz's exploding sticks, and adding Talia to the mix might just be the fuse that causes it to light. Maeve is not looking forward to it. Even now they're lined up as if on opposing sides of a battle, she and Sinbad, Talia and Doubar. Firouz and Rongar are neutral territory, at least for now.
"Where's your ship?" Firouz asks. "Didn't you have one?"
"Confiscated," Talia says with a terrible grimace that turns her sharp face ugly for a moment. "Those bastards in Attalia had a real problem with me for some reason."
"Because of your fortune-telling scam, maybe? That's what we heard," Maeve can't resist saying. She dislikes Talia because the pirate wants Sinbad, yes, but also because she can't be trusted. Maeve will lie when she has to, when circumstances force her. Her current trouble with Doubar is proof of that. But it doesn't come naturally, and she hates how it makes her feel. She'll never be able to understand people who do it easily, willingly, as Talia does.
"Nah." Talia shakes her head, though she doesn't actually deny the accusation. "Something about moorage fees and taxes. I tried to explain, I really did. How can I be expected to pay taxes on income if I can't exactly declare how I got it?" She snorts in disgust. "The whole setup's a scam, I'm telling you. In my next life I'm coming back as a politician. That's where the real money is." She nods sagely.
Oh, good gods. Maeve closes her eyes. Between her rebelling stomach and now Talia, this is going to be a very, very long voyage.
"So you skipped out of Attalia, presumably as a stowaway, and ended up on Cyprus, in the city of Lefka?" Sinbad prompts.
"Yep. Couldn't make any money, not after the authorities were onto me. And I can't get my ship out of impound without it. Believe me, I tried. I snuck back on board one night and was going to high-tail it out of there by my lonesome, but some guards tossed me overboard. And laughed." Her face twists. "I'll have the last laugh on them, see if I don't. I'm not sure how. But I will."
"And you stowed away on the Nomad instead of just coming to me because…?" Sinbad prompts. He seems a little more amused now. Maybe because Talia got what she firmly deserved. Or maybe just at the thought of her being summarily pitched into the harbor.
"I didn't know it was you at first," Talia replies easily. "I recognized the ship, but I mean, I see a lot of ships. No one was on board except some guy dozing on watch. I hid in the hold, but then I got locked in."
Whoever was on watch that day won't be employed after reaching Crete; Maeve doesn't even have to ask. This time it was only Talia, but anyone could have snuck aboard. Sinbad isn't in the mood for that sort of mistake right now.
"So, as I said before, food?" Talia looks at the captain expectantly.
Maeve herself has to eat, and she doesn't really want Talia or anyone else preparing food right now. If she's going to experiment with what her stomach will handle, she wants to do it herself. So, though she's not thrilled with the idea of spending any more time with Talia than she has to, she beckons to the pirate. "Come on," she says, feeling both very tired and very resigned. "I didn't eat breakfast either. I'll feed you."
Talia hesitates. "Can you cook?" she asks, sounding a little suspicious.
"No. Can you?"
"No." The pirate seems to take this cheerfully enough. "Lead on, then."
"Maeve…" Sinbad shifts beside her, looking doubtful.
"It's fine. I'm not going to poison her." She has to try to eat at some point and she'd rather be in charge of the process than allow someone else to do it.
The offhand mention of poison doesn't please Sinbad; she can see the flash of pain in his eyes. She loves him, but this is getting old. He needs to move on. She has. She understands the need for caution going forward, but what he's doing now isn't caution, it's dwelling, and dwelling on the past won't change the present or fix the future. She wishes she could slap some sense into him. Or kiss it there, either way. But she can't, so instead she heads down into the galley, Talia trailing hopefully behind.
"So, where are we headed?" the pirate asks, dropping onto a bench. "I tried to listen in when I heard voices, but never heard anything interesting."
Maeve inspects their supplies. Sinbad did as he said he would and left her a bowl of gruel that's now congealed into a solid mass. She knows she won't be able to handle the smell from the barrel of pickled fish so she doesn't even consider opening it. She dips up water and weak ale, passing a portion to Talia, and puts a raisin in her mouth as an experiment. The seeds crunch as she bites down; her stomach doesn't protest the small burst of sweetness.
"We're almost to Crete, to drop off the cargo you've been hiding in. And to look for you." Maeve slices bread and adds golden-green olive oil thick with crushed garlic and rosemary. Antoine tried supplying her with butter, knowing she misses it, but it went rancid almost instantly in the Mediterranean heat. The spell she has to keep milk sweet doesn't, she learned, work on butter. The smell of the garlic and herbs is too strong, her belly lurching in warning, and she passes that plate to Talia, keeping gruel for herself.
"I'm touched," Talia says, gulping ale, "but why were you looking for me? Sinbad tends to let the wind decide when it's time to catch up with old friends."
Maeve adds a handful of raisins to her bowl and sits opposite the piratess. She has no idea how much Sinbad wants to tell Talia, what he'll do with her now that she's here. Last she asked, he hadn't quite figured that out. "We ran into a little trouble with a demon," she says, opting for deliberate ambiguity. And understatement.
"Oh, whoa. Hey. Demons are not my thing. Diamonds, yes. Demons, no." Talia looks up from her mug, alarmed.
Maeve snorts lightly and pokes at the mess in her bowl with her wooden spoon. She reheats it with a touch, hoping that might make it slightly more palatable.
"What are you doing with this weird western bread?" Talia asks, squinting at the plate in front of her. "I mean, no offense. I know you're Celt and all. If that hair didn't scream it, those clothes would. You ever think about dressing more...I don't know, practical?" She peers at Maeve's bowl. "And what's that? It's not barley."
"Oats. It's a long story." And one she has no intention of getting into right now. The rest of the crew have accepted that unnamed people with some tie to Maeve are providing supplies until the immediate danger from Rumina has passed. Antoine has done his best to keep their diet the same, with some additions like fresh bread that Maeve secretly welcomes, but some substitutions were necessary. The crew is curious, Maeve knows, but after her last big fight with Doubar they know better than to pry. Talia does not.
"Did you recently do a favor for some northern king or something?" Talia begins to eat despite her objections.
"No." Maeve takes a cautious bite. It's gluey and bland and thoroughly unobjectionable. "We're being supplied by...some friends of mine. Just for a while. It's complicated."
"Didn't know you had any," Talia says with her mouth full.
Maeve isn't sure whether she's meant to take insult at that. She frowns and says nothing. Keeping the peace for as long as possible is important. At least they'll be landing on Crete later today. And if all else fails, she has her own cabin, tiny closet that it is. Sinbad has given her permission to do what she needs to do, and she can shut herself behind her door alone for a while if she has to.
"Hey," Talia continues, "what about those clothes? Why do you dress like that? Do you like looking like a barbarian?"
"Yes," Maeve says evenly. She is what she is, and she has no desire to pretend otherwise.
"Oh." Talia's hazel eyes rise from her food, considering her from across the table. Maeve wonders what she sees. "I just mean, you live on a ship with a bunch of hot-blooded men. Aren't they all looking up your skirts every time the wind gusts? Wouldn't trousers be more practical?"
"I don't care what they look at; I've never asked. If anyone has an issue with me, that's their problem, not mine. Sinbad doesn't, and since he's the captain his opinion is the only one that matters." She's always felt eyes on her, no matter where she goes. It's part of being beautiful, and part of being foreign. Dressing differently would not change that, not really.
"Don't get me wrong, you're a pretty thing." Talia grins. "I bet you'd have all the men in port panting after you if you were a little nicer to them."
"And I bet you'd have the men in port panting after you if you didn't pick all their pockets." Maeve drinks her water cautiously, but at least for now her stomach seems to accept it.
Talia laughs delightedly. She's in a fabulous mood. Maeve is not. "How do you think I get close enough to pick them?" She pauses, considering. "Hey, d'you think Sinbad would loan me what I need to get my ship back? You know, between friends."
Probably, if he has it. Even though he must know he'll never get that "loan" back again. But Maeve has no idea how much money they're talking. "Maybe," she allows.
"We could maybe strike a deal," Talia says thoughtfully, poking at the crumbs on her plate. "You said you were looking for me. What's up with the demon?"
"He's after Sinbad's soul."
"Figures." Talia licks her fingers. "I've never eaten bread aboard ship before."
"Where would you bake it?" Sailors necessarily restrict their cooking to whatever uses the least amount of space, water, and fuel. Even most flatbreads require an oven, which they do not possess. They could conceivably make roti, but no one wants to grind the grain.
Talia doesn't answer. "There had to be a demon involved, huh? He couldn't come looking for me just because he missed me?"
"Who said he missed you?" Maeve's low-grade irritation turns sullen. This is not a conversation she wants to continue.
Talia smiles. "He missed me, sweetie. They all do." She drinks her ale. "What's the matter? Did he kiss you? Is that why you're upset?"
Maeve presses her teeth together to prevent her from saying anything she'll later regret. It's not a skill she's ever been particularly good at, but she's trying.
"Look, I'm just being honest. Your captain's one handsome man, he has one hell of a reputation with the ladies, and he deserves every last hushed whisper. It doesn't bother me. A man like that can't be tied down, can't be expected to keep to one or two women exclusively. I pity the girl who chooses to try." She stretches her legs out under the table. "You're smarter than that, aren't you? Smart enough to know you're not any different from the rest."
Maeve breathes slowly, so deep that she swears she can still smell pickled fish despite the closed barrel. She's good at reading people, but she admits she finds Talia a challenge. Is she being deliberately cruel or just obtuse? She takes a moment before she responds, reminding herself that the pirate has no idea what's happened to them since they last met. And no one knows Sinbad is hers, only herself and her captain. Talia's not trying to wound her, Maeve tells herself. She's just clueless, and likes to run her mouth.
Whatever Sinbad feels for Talia, Maeve doesn't know. She never asked. The first time Talia resurfaced in their lives, she didn't feel entitled to pry. He wasn't hers, and she was still in denial that she wanted him to be. She'd be perfectly content to put it in the past, as she keeps telling Sinbad to do with her poisoning. But Talia is back, stirring the pot, and Maeve doesn't know how long she can keep quiet. Not speaking her mind is not something she's good at.
At the same time, she understands why Sinbad wants Talia around. He knows the tension aboard his ship is near unbearable already and he's stated his misgivings about searching for Talia more than once. He knows this is not a good idea, but he's doing it anyway to keep the pressure and danger of Rumina's scrutiny off Maeve. Antoine suggested keeping other women around, to keep Scratch and Rumina guessing. Keely even passed her own pregnancy off as Sinbad's doing, which was brilliant, since she's safe at Breakwater where Scratch can't touch her. Talia is tough. She's not some sweet little flower—she's the Black Rose. They need a woman like her to act as a decoy.
"You'll have to ask Sinbad about whether he missed you and what it is he wants," Maeve says, rising from the table. She can contain herself. For now. "I have to get back on duty."
Sinbad curses himself for a fool. He's been wrapped up in worry over Maeve—her health, her safety, especially after her poisoning—and he didn't take the time he should have to really plan this ruse with Talia. Now he's left scrambling. It's not a position he likes to put himself in and he's not in a good mood as they approach Crete.
Doubar, on the other hand, is jubilant. He breaks out in song several times after Maeve and Talia disappear below, little ripples of verses dropped into the wind as he works. He hasn't done this since learning what the sinister mark on Sinbad's chest means.
Sinbad gets it. His brother thinks the answer to all their problems has suddenly appeared, in the person of an amoral, troublesome piratess. She's an old friend, something of an old flame, and Doubar believes she's the one to save Sinbad's soul from Scratch. But Sinbad has no intention of sleeping with Talia, as Doubar assumes. Maeve is the only woman he wants, and he knows without asking that she's not willing to share him. In his world this is highly unusual—men are not expected to be monogamous. In Maeve's world things seem to work a little differently. According to Antoine and Niall, emotional monogamy is expected from both members of a bonded pair, though not necessarily physical monogamy. He's not clear on the reason for the distinction, but it doesn't matter. Maeve is a jealous creature when the sentiment takes her, and she does not get along well with Talia. Keeping clear of that entanglement is best for everyone involved.
But he needs someone like Talia around, a female of childbearing age to act as a decoy, diverting Rumina and Scratch's attention. He's grateful to Keely for taunting the witch with her own pregnancy, but one vicious encounter won't divert Rumina's attention for long. He needs something bigger. Talia could potentially provide that.
And that in itself would be difficult enough to explain to her, but on top of it all, Doubar expects a nephew out of her. He can't talk to her in an obscure language Rumina and Scratch won't understand, and he can't take her to Breakwater so he can explain in safety. He's stuck, and he's not yet sure how to wiggle his way out of this one. He feels blocked in no matter which way he turns.
"One down," Doubar says gleefully, slouching beside him as Sinbad mans the tiller. "Or two, if you count that green woman. Should we try for Elise next? Or Fallon?"
Sinbad holds back a weary groan. "Just how many women do you think this ship can handle?" One is enough for him.
"Why so reluctant? Not feeling up for the job?" Doubar chortles, delighted with his dirty joke.
Sinbad doesn't think it's funny. "Neither my ship nor I would survive what you're suggesting."
Doubar leans back against the railing. "In all seriousness, it isn't a bad idea to hedge your bets. Have a backup. Or three." He eyes him speculatively. "Rumina seems occupied with Maeve even though the witch knows she won't help you, so I guess the lass at least has some use as a diversion. Now you need one for Scratch's attention as well."
Sinbad has no idea whether Maeve might get along with the Adventurers better than she does with Talia, but in this particular circumstance the prospects aren't good. She's with child and she deserves as much calm as he can give her, not more people to worry about. "Absolutely not. You realize these are actual people, right? Our friends. Not just scarecrows. Or broodmares." He wants to come out the other side of this war with an intact soul, a safe sorceress, and a healthy child. One. Not a flock.
Doubar frowns at him. "Why do I have to keep reminding you that your soul's at stake?" he says sourly. "It's like you're not taking this seriously at all."
"I am. Very seriously." He feels like he's aged years in the past few weeks, all from worry. "But mine isn't the only life in danger. Maeve's is. Talia's too, now that she's here. Any other woman near me. Maeve knows the danger and chooses to stay, but Talia is innocent. Elise and Fallon are innocent. Any child I might father is innocent. I refuse to endanger any more lives than I have to."
"Talia's tough," Doubar says, dismissing this argument. "A little danger won't stop her. And what about that green woman? Haven't seen her before or since. Not the prettiest thing, or the nicest. But she wasn't afraid of Rumina."
"She won't be around. She and Maeve are at odds." And she doesn't belong on his ship anyway. She has a céile and two babies to protect in addition to the one in her belly. She needs to stay safe, far away from here, even after she and her sister make up.
"Figures."
"Stop. Nothing good will come of talking about Maeve like that, so stop."
"I'm just saying. You don't want Talia around because she and Maeve don't get along. The girl who's actually pregnant isn't around because she and Maeve are fighting. You don't want to go find Elise or Fallon because you're afraid of Maeve's reaction. How do you not see the pattern here?"
"I see your meaning well enough. But you don't know the whole story, so I'm telling you again to stop." Maeve's reasons for disliking Talia are valid—not the jealousy, for he has no intention of touching the pirate, but the rest of it. Talia can't be trusted, and Maeve doesn't trust easily to begin with. Even Doubar can't deny that. And the spat with Keely is none of their business. She's pricklier than Maeve and they fight habitually; Antoine says so and Sinbad's seen it for himself. They'll get over it when they get over it.
Yes, Maeve is difficult at times. She can be a pain in the ass, and she admits it. But he's also seen her capability for deep love and affection. So has Doubar, as unwilling as he is right now to remember.
"That girl causes trouble wherever she goes. She can't get along with any other women. I don't need to know the whole story to see that."
She can so get along with other women. She meshes better with men, exists more comfortably in a man's world, and that's undeniable. But she loves her sisters and her little nieces dearly, and she's given friendship and compassion to other women, too. Cairpra. Little Serendib. He could name more, but pointing this out to Doubar won't change his brother's mind when he's being so obnoxiously bullheaded. "Enough," he says instead. "Maeve is a member of this crew and she's not going anywhere. And we are not going in search of Elise or Fallon. Or any other women you can name."
"With all this constant stonewalling I'm beginning to feel like you want Scratch to take your soul. What's going on with you?" Doubar peers at him, his blue-gray gaze intent. "I know you like being a hero, but that doesn't mean you need to be a martyr, too."
"I have no intention of becoming one." He's going to win this war. Doubar's plan sounds wise in theory—right now, Sinbad is staking everything he has on one single bet. But that bet is Maeve. She will not let him down. "I intend to fight. To win. And then to be the very best father I can be. Martyrs don't make good fathers."
"You talk about being a father, but you're two moons down out of eight. That's a quarter of your time gone, and what do you have to show for it?"
A woman he adores, strong but visibly unwell as her body adjusts to her first pregnancy, but he can't tell his brother that. He rubs his face, searching for a way to appease Doubar without saying too much. He's tired, and though he's usually good at thinking on the spot, he honestly can't find the words. He's under too much strain, too much pressure. This curse is on his soul, and he's the captain of his ship. It all comes down to him.
A deafening bang sounds from below.
The Nomad shudders in the water. Without conscious thought, Sinbad's body reacts. He abandons the tiller, diving for the door. Maeve is on deck, thank the gods, with Rongar near the bow. They drop the rope in their hands and follow him.
Black smoke floods from the door when he yanks it open. He coughs and turns his head aside. He knows that caustic smell, though it usually doesn't cause such thick, choking smoke.
"Stay up here," he snaps when Maeve reaches him. She's not going down into that smoke, no matter what she says. He pulls one side of his shirt up over his nose and mouth and nods at Rongar. He inches cautiously down the steps, the Moor at his back.
He can hear the choking coughs of at least two people, one of them female. He follows the sound to Talia, banging his hip on the galley table, his shin on a bench. "Where are you?" he demands, listening to the sound of her coughs, and begins to hack himself as he breathes in the thick, choking cloud.
"Here," she says through the black smoke. A hand touches his knee; she hooks her fingers in his hijam and hauls herself to her feet. She must have ducked under the table when the explosion went off, which was probably the wisest thing she could have done, considering. He moves her blindly behind him, passing her into Rongar's grip and thus to the stairs so she can escape up top.
"Firouz!" Sinbad calls, and convulses in a coughing fit. He's very familiar with the sulfurous smell of this smoke and he has a sinking suspicion he knows what—and who—caused it. He doesn't have the luxury of being furious, however, until he knows his scientist is unharmed. He makes his way step by blind step down the galley, cautious lest he tread on someone fallen to the floor.
He collides solidly with Firouz somewhere near his own door. Relief fills him, and he grabs the inventor's baggy shirt in a tight fist so he doesn't lose him in the smoke. He hauls him toward the door. Firouz's choking, coughing breaths are labored but he's upright and moving under his own power. He follows Sinbad's pull readily and together they make their way above deck.
Sinbad drops the fold of shirt he held over his mouth, coughing freely in the clearer air. His eyes smart and water; he blinks the smoke from them. It's a terrifying sight for a sailor at sea: thick black smoke spewing from the doorway and the hatches on deck. He swiftly searches the faces watching him, finding everyone thankfully accounted for. "Is there a fire?" he demands of Firouz.
The man is doubled over, hands on his knees as he coughs, struggling for a good breath. "WHAT?" he bellows.
"Did you cause a fire?" Sinbad repeats his demand, impatient with the struggling scientist. If so, they need to know now, while it's still small enough to fight.
"I'M SORRY," Firouz bellows between coughs. He tugs at one ear. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU. IS THERE A BELL RINGING?"
"I SAID—" Sinbad abandons the attempt to roar at his deafened scientist. He looks to Rongar, who shrugs helplessly.
"Honestly," Maeve snaps, striding for the door.
"Don't. That's an order."
She glares. "Like I've never disobeyed one of those before. You want your ship to burn, or not?"
He shouldn't touch her and she hates being restrained, but he finds his hand wrapping around her arm anyway, just above her elbow. Her arm is warm and hard with muscle under her sleeve. He's had enough of this day and it isn't even noontide yet. "Fix it from out here."
Her mouth thins and her chin lifts. For a long moment he wonders if she's going to deliberately flout his order. She has before, but not for a long time. Not since they truly became friends.
She inhales a very long, slow breath. He can see the barely-restrained anger in her tight throat, her tense shoulders. He knows better than to bark at her, grab at her, and he'll pay for it later, but right now he doesn't have time to worry about that.
Her free hand rises, palm up and open in front of her. She says a short sentence in a language he doesn't understand and closes her fingers tightly over her palm.
The smoke doesn't disappear, but it lessens immediately. Sinbad exhales a relieved burst of air and releases her. He's sorry, truly he is, and he'll make it up to her tonight, after everyone else is asleep. But a fire aboard ship is an emergency that can't wait, and he needs her to stay safe. "You stay," he says firmly. He does not want her down in that choking smoke, especially after how unwell she felt this morning. Besides, after an explosion like that the structure of the ship may no longer be sound. If the deck collapses or the hull gives way, he will not have her trapped below.
Her eyes flash fire, but for once—for now—she doesn't argue.
"I need to survey the damage. See if you can get an explanation from Firouz." He nods at the coughing scientist. "Talia, did you see what happened?"
"Nah. I was at the table and then suddenly BOOM." She looks at Firouz appreciatively. "I had no idea he could do that."
"If he's ruined Dim-Dim's books…" Maeve's voice trails off dangerously. She doesn't have to elaborate; Sinbad gets it. Those books are precious objects, and moreso to her, belonging as they do to her master.
"If he has, we'll deal with it then." Sinbad beckons to Rongar and Doubar and starts down the stairs again.
The open door and hatches have helped vent the galley but the smoke still stings Sinbad's eyes as he descends. He surveys the damage as the smoke clears. The galley is more or less intact, but the first cabin on the left, the one Firouz uses for his puttering when they don't have passengers, is destroyed. The interior wall no longer exists, and the exterior planking is black and smoking. Maeve was able to extinguish the fire, thank the gods, and he can't see any visible leaks, but he's glad they're almost to Crete. He needs to reinforce that area as soon as possible, definitely before trusting their lives to it again.
Shattered, smoking bits of inventions litter the floor and crunch underfoot, along with splinters and larger chunks of wood. But Sinbad is relieved as he surveys the damage; none of it seems to be structural. The beams and joists remain sturdy, and he can't see any dangerous cracks. Most of his worry ebbs as he and his men return topside.
"I'M SO SORRY, SINBAD!" Firouz bellows from his seat on a barrel, Maeve and Talia flanking either side. "I WAS EXPERIMENTING WITH RATIOS IN MY BLASTING POWDER. APPARENTLY THE ADDITION OF SALTPETER MAKES IT DECIDEDLY MORE REACTIVE. I KNOCKED A WEIGHT OVER, ONTO A PORTION, AND…"
"Boom," Talia finishes.
"Boom," Doubar agrees. "And, unfortunately, that boom blew up your cabin."
It did. The ship was built with two tiny passenger cabins. Maeve has one and Firouz has now blown up the other. Sinbad swears under his breath. "Aye," he agrees, damning Firouz's timing. "Talia, you'll have to bunk with Maeve for now."
Both women immediately protest this plan.
"Whoa. Hang on there, big boy. I'm the Black Rose of Oman. I don't do roomies."
Maeve's delicate eyebrows lower like thunderclouds. "The Black Rose can go back in the hold."
"It's full of rats," Talia objects.
"It is not; Sinbad runs a clean ship."
He tries, mostly. As well as he can without a cat, which he can't employ because Doubar thinks they're creepy and Maeve says Dermott and a cat would fight. "Enough," he says firmly, cutting them both off. "It's just for tonight. Unless you have the coin to take shelter in town, Talia."
Her silence tells him the answer to this.
"We'll be in port by late afternoon. We can take stock of what we need for repairs and decide how to move forward after that." He's using his best captain's voice, hoping nobody chooses to argue with it. He needs everyone to just let him captain for a while.
Maeve doesn't like this decision any more than she liked him ordering her to remain on deck; he can tell how unhappy she is by the pace of her breath, the tilt of her dangerous mouth, though she doesn't actually say anything. What can she say? She knows they need Talia.
But Firouz's accidental explosion has caused another headache for Sinbad—a smaller one, he acknowledges, but one that still makes him grumpy as hell. If Maeve's bunking with Talia, she can't come to him tonight. Or any night, for however long this setup lasts. It's too dangerous. Talia would notice her sneaking out, no matter how quiet she tried to be.
Sinbad tries not to be angry. To look on the bright side. They're not on fire. They're not sinking. They'll be in port before nightfall. No one was hurt, except for Firouz's ears. He watches as Maeve hauls a bucket of seawater up and Rongar offers the scientist a piece of rag that doesn't look too dirty so he can clean off the remnants of black powder coating him.
"Is he going to be deaf permanently?" he asks as his sorceress holds the bucket for Firouz.
"How should I know?" she snaps. Yeah, she's still mad at him. "I accidentally set fire to things. I don't blow them up."
"You do both," Doubar mutters behind them.
Talia squeezes his arm. "Never a dull moment, eh, Sinbad?"