Free Pinion by Jay Lake Page A

my map,” she offered, to see what else he might reveal in the vacancies of that truth.
    “Next I suppose you will tell me your face did not launch a thousand of those underwater ships, either.” His expression over the rim of his cup was downright mischievous.
    “I should hardly think so.” She met him smile for smile. “All faces are masks. All Masks have faces.”
    “Mmm.” He set his cup down, speared a slice of dewy pink fruit with a tiny silver fork. “What does a good Anglican heretic such as yourself want in my poor parish? You come armed with a warship, and fly a flag of fictional intent, unless there has been some new empire aborning whose cries have not reached my ears.”
    “I come armed with nothing but my wits. That is not my warship down in the harbor.” Even as she said the words, Childress realized they were the closest thing to a lie.
Five Lucky Winds
did fly
her
flag, and they sailedthe course she had suggested. Their future in all likelihood hung on her ability to play the part of Mask that she had assumed so reluctantly on first being taken violently aboard that vessel.
    “What do your wits tell you?”
    “That my map is old.”
    They both laughed. The priest let silence stretch a while, content to invite Childress to fill it.
    Being the supplicant, she did. “We search for a neutral port; seeking fuel, food and fresh water. Access to a foundry or a machine shop would not go amiss, though our troubles there are not too serious.”
Yet
. There would never again be a warehouse full of parts and ship mechanics awaiting
Five Lucky Winds
, as in the ship’s former home port of Tainan.
    “We come directly to the heart of your matter,” the priest replied. “Few harbors here in the western Indian Ocean would admit a vessel such as yours. You have chosen well, poor map or no.” Another sip of tea. “I am certain the children of God in my parish will be pleased to sell you melons and dried fish and bushels of whatever they have in surplus.”
    Childress heard the slap of sandals outside as some unseen listener raced away with the good tidings. “Thank you, Father. That is most welcome news.”
    “Mmm. As for fuel and machinery, unless you can burn palm oil and repair your ship with wooden batons, I am afraid we will not do you much good here.”
    Something unsaid hung at the edge of his voice. Something she would have to be clever enough to ask.
    Some willing treason he cannot simply volunteer
, she thought.
    “We will deal fairly with the folk of your parish,” Childress said slowly, bargaining by the syllable. “I respect the delicate nature of your position.” A shot into the darkness of this man’s purpose.
    Another long, slow sip of tea as his eyes hardened. “I should imagine someone bereft of the protection of any crown might well comprehend such things.”
    Crown
. This place was a sovereign neverland, if she understood the political arrangements. Childress tried to think like Admiral Shang, like William of Ghent, like all those persons of high purpose and obscure intent she had encountered along this journey. “Loyalties can be stripped away in the passages of power.”
    Father Francis’ weight shifted. “What does your banner signify?”
    “That there is one world under the gears of God,” she said softly. Her own words surprised her.
    “One world, many flags. You know our history here?”
    Childress nodded. “Under Portuguese rule for quite some time, though you are no Lusitanian. Now the British Empire holds sway through its client monarch in Lisbon, yes?”
    “Yes. For most people there is no change. They follow an ox through a paddy, or pull golden perch from the river. The colors of the flag are little more than another flower blooming on a narrow wooden stalk. But for some there is grave difference. . . .” He ran a fingertip around the rim of his cup. “I am here because I am dying.”
    “I had thought you to be a much bigger man not so long ago,