Naamah's Blessing

in Captain Rousse’s voice gave way to rising anger. He grabbed the front of the sailor’s shirt in one fist. “Tell me! What in the seven hells were you doing with my logbook?”
    “Nothing good,” Bao muttered beside me.
    The sailor kept his silence. With a roar of disgust, Rousse flung him to the deck, planting his feet and towering over him.
“Tell me!”
    Whatever he was about, this Edouard had courage. He kept his mouth stubbornly shut on his secret.
    “All right, then.” With an effort, Septimus Rousse took a step backward and collected himself. “Alaric, put him under guard.” He glanced at the eastern horizon. “Come dawn, we’ll see if a spot of keelhauling will make him talk. Night shift, resume your posts.” Turning to me, he bowed. “My apologies, my lady. I assure you, the matter will be dealt with.”
    The crowd gathered on the deck dispersed. Bao and I returned to our wardroom along with the others.
    Now that the crisis had been contained, I was wide-awake, my nerves jangling. I daresay all of us were. We kindled a lantern and sat at the long table that bisected the room, discussing the matter.
    “Why would anyone steal the captain’s logbook?” Brice de Bretel mused. “Name of Elua! We’d be lost at sea without it!”
    Balthasar studied his fingernails. “Precisely.”
    I swallowed hard. “You think he meant to sabotage the expedition?”
    He shot me a look. “What else?”
    “Rousse should have beaten a confession out of him!” Alain Guillard said in a fierce voice.
    “Are you familiar with the practice of keelhauling?” Denis inquired. The other shook his head. “Believe me, the captain doesn’t intend to go easy on him.”
    “What do you think, my lord Denis?” I asked him. “You’re the one spotted the fellow. What was he planning to do with the logbook?”
    “At best, hide it. At worst…” He shrugged. “Dispose of it.”
    “But that’s madness!” Clemente DuBois’ eyes were wide. He was alleged to be a skilled swordsman, but I wasn’t overly impressed with his intellect. “Why would anyone do such a thing? It would doom us all!”
    “Most likely,” Bao said in a pragmatic tone. “I think that was the idea. For sure, it would doom the mission to failure.”
    Balthasar glanced up from his nails. “The more interesting question is, who put him up to it?”
    There was silence in the wardroom. All of us, even slightly dim-witted Clemente DuBois, knew that the list of folk who stood to benefit from the failure of our expedition was a very, very short one.
    “Would he?” I asked in wonder. “Would Duc Rogier do such a thing?”
    Balthasar shrugged. “Unless the man’s stark, raving mad, someone did. Someone provided a damn powerful incentive to get a man to risk throwing his own life away just to scuttle our mission.”
    “We need a confession from him,” Denis said in a low voice. “We need to know if there are others, or if he was working alone. And whatever else happens, whether we succeed or fail, if we live to see Terre d’Ange again, our noble Regent can’t be allowed to get away with this.”
    “It’s not going to be easy,” Bao commented. “Hard to get a man ready and willing to die to talk.”
    “He’ll talk,” Denis predicted. “Once he’s had a taste of keelhauling, he’ll talk. I saw it done to a sailor caught stealing rations on the first voyage.” He shuddered. “He’ll beg for a chance to talk.”
    In that, he was wrong.
    Come dawn, I found out exactly what the process of keelhauling entailed. In theory, it was simple. A long rope was tied under the sailor Edouard’s arms, and he was lowered overboard to be dragged alongside the ship. I thought the threat of drowning must be the worst of it, but it was only part. After weeks at sea, the sharp-edged barnacles that clustered on the ship’s hull tore at the fellow’s flesh.
    Three times, Captain Rousse ordered Edouard lowered and dragged; and three times, he came up coughing and sputtering seawater and bleeding from increasingly numerous gashes, his clothing in tatters.
    Each time, he refused to break his silence.
    By the third time, Edouard was half-drowned, lying limp and listless on the deck, leaking fluids.
    Septimus Rousse prodded him with a booted toe. “Would you rather the flogger?” he asked. “That’s what’s next for you, my lad.”
    I winced.
    “My lord captain,” Balthasar addressed him in a casual tone. “Forgive me for this breach of protocol,