Princess at Sea by Dawn Cook Page B

hit my wrists, and when I cracked my eyelids, the dim light hurt them. My neck was stiff, my lips were cracked, and my head was a massive ache of agony. I took several slow, shallow breaths and tried to remember.
    It was the sound of the bells tinkling upon Captain Rylan’s boots that brought it all back.
    My ribs hurt because Captain Rylan had kicked me. My head hurt because Mr. Smitty had swung the boom into me, and I had been too stupid to duck. Squinting, I could see that the skin had been rubbed raw from around my wrists, probably by salt-laden ropes tied about them. They were gone now, and I was thankful for small favors. I didn’t know why my stomach hurt, except perhaps because I was hungry. And my neck was probably sore from lying atop a moldering pile of wooden floats and rotting nets.
    Wedging an elbow under me, I tried to rise. My head thundered in time with my pulse, and I very slowly lowered myself back down, breathing shallowly and staring at the low ceiling, willing myself not to vomit. There had been a clink of metal, and the heavy weight about my ankle gained meaning. I was chained to something.
    â€œTess?” warbled a voice from the other side of the low, long hold. “You’re all right!”
    â€œContessa,” I breathed, wanting to look but not trusting myself yet to shift my head.
    â€œYou’re awake!” she said, hushed but intent. “They hit you so hard. And you didn’t wake up. I thought you were dead. And they wanted to kill you. They wouldn’t stop hitting you, and you didn’t wake up!”
    â€œContessa,” I whispered, as her frantic voice seemed to scrape the insides of my eyelids and make my head hurt even more. “Please be quiet.”
    â€œAlex tried to stop them,” she said, the sound of tears heavy in her babbling. “It took three of them to bring him down. And they forced him to kneel and Mr. Smitty took his sword. Oh, Tess, I thought they killed you!”
    â€œContessa,” I breathed, staring at the black mold on the ceiling. “Shut up. You’re hurting my eyes.”
    She gasped, her next outburst dying. Her breath came out in a sob, and she held the next.
    Feeling bad now for having told the queen of Costenopolie to shut up, I tilted my head to find her, wondering why she hadn’t rushed over and given me a good shake to finish killing me. Tongue scraping the inside of my mouth for any hint of moisture, I found her sitting in a shifting patch of sun about two man lengths away.
    I sat up slowly, the thick mat of nets under me making an uncomfortable surface. The soft clink of metal drew my attention to my filthy bare ankle, wrapped in a shackle that looked as if it was used for wrists, not feet. I followed the length of chain to where it was bolted to the wall, red and white flakes of rust and salt making an ugly knot.
    Taking another shallow breath, I tried to clear my head, cataloging my new state with a numbed acceptance. My underskirt was badly ripped, and the overly elaborate dress I had worn to dinner was stained by salt and brown smears of old algae. My shoes were gone, and my hair was down and tangled. Needless to say my whip, dagger, and what darts I’d had left were absent.
    The stench of mold and burned oil hung thick in my nose, a black, greasy film covering most of my exposed skin in smears between the bruises. Rubbing my sore palms together, I looked across the low-ceilinged hold to Contessa. She looked better than I felt, her dress still in one piece and her useless boots on her feet. Her blond hair was lank about her face, and it had fallen to hide her features as she sat in her beam of light. A soft murmur came from her, and I realized the monotone of rhythm haunting my pain-filled dreams had been her prayers.
    The light was becoming tolerable, and I shifted a body width closer, breath held against the hurt. A cold feeling shocked through me as I realized the slump of green-and-gold