12. The Captain’s Dinner
The Captain’s Dinner
In my cabin, the first thing I notice is the dress. It’s been laid out on my bed along with a pair of heeled, buttoned boots and a note.
Cosmer, following me into the room, takes one look at it and grins.
“Do I get a dress, too?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Shame. What does the note say?”
I pick it up.
A gown to borrow for your first proper night on board The Emperor, as our special guest at dinner.
Underneath, a sentence is scrawled, as if done in haste, I know you’ll make the right choices.
It’s signed by Dezeeves.
I hold the dress up to me.
It looks like it may have been tailored for a woman curvier – and much better endowed – than me. But if pulled in tightly, it should fit well. And…
It’s lovely. I wore similar dresses in the Palace. It’s obviously Rhavnan-made, with its tight bodice, longer sleeves and flowing style, a skirt that cascades outwards. Sheer, midnight blue fabric that catches the light as if reflecting the night sky.
Where would Dezeeves have got a dress like this?
Cosmer intakes a breath. “They seriously want you to wear that? They’re already pretty old. The shock you’ll give them will put them out like laser lights.”
I pull the dress to me tighter. Is that a joke, or a compliment?
Either way, it nettles me.
“In Rhavnan culture,” I say, “It would be polite to wait until after the girl is in her attire to make a compliment. Otherwise, she’ll think you’re just complimenting the dress.”
“Firstly,” he says, sort of stretching out his arms, “I was just complimenting the dress. And secondly, in Hevallan culture, if we want to say something, we just come out and say it. We could be dead by the time she puts the damn thing on.”
He’s smirking.
I most definitely hate him again.
“Look away now,” I state.
I face the wall by my bed and start slipping out of my clothes. I can feel and hear him behind me, getting changed by his own bed.
I step into the dress and hoist it up. Then I hesitate. Most corsets are elasticated now. I will struggle with the old-fashioned ribbons in this.
“Cosmer?” I ask, after a beat.
“Yes?”
My voice shakes a little. “Would you do up the back for me, please? With bow knots?”
I glance over my shoulder.
He’s looking at me over his.
The simple cream shirt he’s put on, which could well be one issued to all soldiers, is half undone.
He lets go of the button he’d been fiddling with and comes over to me. I stay facing the wall, trying to remain as still as I can, which seems to be proving a challenge. I’m jittering.
I suppose it’s setting my nerves off that he will be in such close proximity to me, right by my bare shoulders, when things are uneasy between us right now – and all we really are to each other is a prisoner and an officer.
I’m probably crossing a line.
But it’s too late now.
Right behind me, he takes the satin ribbons of the bodice and pulls them, tightly. I suck in a breath. He starts knotting, which squeezes me in tighter. It seems to take an age.
He finally lets go.
I turn around.
“How does it look?” I smooth my hair over my shoulder.
His gaze travels down my body. His eyes widen, and the colour drains from his face, making every freckle more pronounced. I could count them.
I sort of… want to.
“Cosmer?” I probe.
“It’s a great dress,” he affirms, looking away.
He goes back to buttoning up his shirt.
I breathe deep, fighting off the sigh my body is longing to make.
Why did I, for a second, expect him to say something else?
The pangs in my chest almost feel like disappointment.
We meet Riss and Drake outside their door. Riss is in a simple pale pink dress that is sleek over her legs and accentuates her pointy collarbone and shoulders. With her short haircut and sharp face, she looks sort of otherworldly, like she could take flight.
But, in my gown, and my hair brushed and braided with a bootlace I found in the dresser – I took inspiration from Riss and improvised – I feel wholly overdressed beside her.
Drake, it seems, has also been presented with distinctly Rhavnan clothing to borrow. He’s wearing a long, fitted black coat, structured at the shoulders. A white silk scarf tucked under his collar has been tied with a traditional knot.
When he sees me, he stands straighter than I think I’ve ever seen him stand before, his hands clasped behind him. His gaze goes right through me. Makes the back of my neck tingle.
Who is he? I find myself wondering, not for the first time. He really is striking. Like he could command armies. And they would listen.
I notice Cosmer and Riss exchange an odd glance.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, stiffening.
“Well,” Riss says. “You both look…”
“Rhavnan.” Cosmer finishes, avoiding eye contact with me.
I cross my arms, suddenly self-conscious. “How did you expect us to look? Both being Rhavnan?”
“It’s not you. It’s your clothes,” Riss states. “I can’t understand why the officers would want to be reminded of who you are. It definitely means this is part of Integration somehow – a test, or a game.”
I bring my folded arms in tighter against my body.
“How do we play, if we don’t know what the rules are?”
I’d directed my question at them, but Drake answers it, eyes on me.
“You convince them you do.”
Deck 7 has a caged archway similar to the one outside Intelligence. Riss explains on the way up that the whole deck is for officer use only.
“Does that mean you, too?” I ask.
“Yes. Well, there’s no point Cosmer using the Wardroom,” Riss starts.
“But I do sometimes, because they serve better food, and more of it,” she continues.
“You have to sit down to wait for your food to be served to you, so it takes ages, though, and you end up getting stuck talking to some ancient man who thinks it’s okay to stare at your chest, drooling, while you’re just trying to eat your bread pudding. ”
“How.... oddly specific.”
“All the people we actually like just use the normal Mess Hall anyway.”
“What about the cabins?”
Riss smiles. “Now those are great. You get your own room, just for you, with a porthole to look out of, and a bed you can actually roll over in without falling out of. Your own wash bowl, too...” She sighs.
“I miss my cabin.” Her face twists, becomes more like a scowl now, as if she’s holding me personally responsible for her loss.
And… I suppose that would be right. I’d be annoyed, too.
The blonde, muscular man I recognise as Ephraine from the execution arrives by the grate. He unlocks it and lifts it up to the sound of complaining metal.
Through an archway ahead, is a beautiful room, I can see into the Wardroom, which is beautiful.
Chandeliers are fitted with sticks of laser light rather than candles.
There is dark orange patterned wallpaper over the walls, and the wooden panelling is engraved with depictions of different sky ships – hive ships, dragonfly-like ships that look like Cosmer’s, rounder ships that look more like beetles or bees.
The floor is a red and brown mosaic, spiralling until it becomes the crest of The Assembly – a simple ‘A’ in a circle with vines encroaching it.
Two long mahogany dining tables are laid with silver forks, pressed napkins, cut glass tumblers filled with brown liquid, and even fresh, bright red flowers in glass vases, which I recognise as Hevallan hibiscus.
The tables are almost all occupied, and first officers are seated among Rhavnans, all well-dressed in shirts and blazers or simple cotton or satin dresses with high necklines or collars.
Would it not be dangerous for Dezeeves to bring all of his FIs together like this? A security risk?
He must be so confident of his conversion work.
Eyes are like pins on us as we step into the room. A few of the officers flinch.
But the FIs seem strangely indifferent.
I walk stiltedly towards them, the train of my dress trailing the floor with the sound that always reminds me of rushing water. I feel like one of the exotic animals or people often paraded in front of the Queen to please her.
I realise Drake and I are being led to the two high-backed chairs directly to the right of Dezeeves and Ephraine, while Cosmer and Riss have been directed towards the two empty chairs at the other table.
It jolts me, seeing them so far.
Why would they sit us apart?
Taking my seat, I focus properly on Dezeeves for the first time. He’s in a crisp shirt and maroon blazer that seems too large for him. His long, ratty ponytail has been tied with a matching ribbon.
He offers me a weak but pleasant smile, then stands up, clinking at his glass with a knife.
“In Hevalla,” he begins, once he has everyone’s attention, “we value mercy and civility – even to our enemies.”
He pauses, inspecting us all. Continues.
“Today, we welcome two prisoners to our table. Invite them to dine with us. Offer them a hospitality their own palace would not offer to us, if the roles were reversed. In doing this, we prove we are stronger than our neighbours across the Sea of the Sisters, and of better character. We prove we can think in new ways when faced with problems – I am talking, of course, of our declining recruitment.”
He gestures with his hand.
“Many of you have sat exactly where Ara and Drake now sit. In the interest of camaraderie – and in thanks for the Hevallan values you have displayed – you are invited here today to join myself and my first officers in welcoming our new friends, who, we hope, will become Fully Integrated soon.”
He holds up his tumbler to the light of the chandelier in a toast.
The whole room lifts theirs, Cosmer and Riss included.
I catch Drake’s eye. He is raising his own glass. He nods at mine.
I understand. The first test.
I raise my own.
“To Hevallan spirit,” Dezeeves declares, and the words are echoed around the room. It reminds me of our recitation of the motto after Sermon. In fact, this whole day has felt like Provision Day. The way it makes us perform.