“Stop,” Evrane eventually snapped. “Or leave the room. You distract me.”
Safi opted to leave—especially now that she had someone’s permission to do so. Here was her chance to examine the main hold. To sort out how she would get Iseult to their hard-earned freedom. She could hear Habim’s lessons as clearly as if he were beside her, harping about strategy and battlegrounds.
The hold turned out to be a shadowy space crammed full of trunks and nets, sacks and barrels. Every nook she inspected had something squeezed in—including sailors—and there was no light save a square burst above the topside ladder.
It all stank of sweat and unwashed bodies, while the caustic stench of chicken crap wafted up from a livestock deck below. Safi was just grateful she couldn’t hear the chickens—or any other animals. There was already too much noise for her temper to endure.
Though most sailors seemed to be overhead, Safi counted twenty-seven men curled up against crates or nestled beside casks. There seemed to be no crew quarters, and Safi filed that away for later consideration.
Of the twenty-seven sailors Safi passed, nineteen bit their thumbs or hissed “’Matsi-lovin’ smut” at her. She pretended not to understand and even went so far as to offer an amiable nod. Yet in the dim light, she memorized their sun-seamed faces. Their vile voices.
When a lanky, black-skinned boy with shoulder-length braids hopped down the ladder belowdecks, Safi’s witchery purred that he was safe. So Safi snagged him by the shoulder as he stumbled by. “Would the crew ever turn on a Nomatsi?”
The boy blinked, all his braids shaking before he answered in a decidedly female voice, “Not if the Admiral isn’t behind it—and I don’t think he would be. He doesn’t mind the ’Matsis like the rest of us.”
“Us?”
“Not me!” The girl’s hands shot up. “I swear, I swear. I don’t have a problem with ’Matsis. I just meant the crew.”
True. Safi dug her knuckles in her eyes. Overhead, toes dragged, swords clanked, and voices barked. Whatever drill was running, Safi wished it would stop.
She launched back into her pacing. A double beat to the drum’s slow rhythm. A triple beat. Why couldn’t she come up with a plan? Iseult made it look so easy, yet every time Safi tried to organize her thoughts, they swirled apart like silt in a stream.
“You shouldn’t walk so much,” the girl said, still following Safi’s steps. “The crew will complain, and then the Admiral might lock you up.”
That gave Safi pause. Being locked up would severely limit her chances of defense or escape should it become necessary.
“I have a good spot topside,” the girl offered. She pointed to the ladder. “You can’t pace, but you can watch the drills.”
Safi’s nostrils twitched. She marched to the lowest rungs and glared into the bright sunlight overhead. Merik was up there. And Kullen too, who could incapacitate Safi at even the slightest disobedience.
But going topside would give Safi a better handle on the ship, the crew, and the layout. Maybe she could assemble a strategy if she learned more.
“No one will see us?” she asked the girl, thinking of Merik’s orders to stay below.
“I swear it.”
“Then show me.”
The girl bared another grin and scrabbled up the ladder. Safi scaled behind and soon found herself surrounded by sailors, their cutlasses high and feet moving in vine-like steps across the heaving deck. Though many men ogled Safi as she sneaked past, she heard no jeers, felt no aggression. The prejudiced men, it would seem, were mostly below.
Which meant she wouldn’t stay here long. She’d get the information she needed and return to Iseult’s side.
Safi followed the girl, counting fifteen steps from the ladder to the forecastle’s shade. The girl slunk behind four barrels that stank of dead fish and hunkered down. Safi crouched beside her, pleased to find that she was indeed hidden. The spot also gave her a clear view of the practicing sailors—of which, she realized with a sickening twist, there were many.
With all the crew displayed in rows instead of clambering in the rigging or scouring the decks, Safi estimated at least fifty men. Probably twice that, since she was gull crap when it came to math.
Safi craned her neck until she glimpsed Merik, Kullen, and three other men beside the tiller. They all wore wind-spectacles and their mouths moved in unison.
Behind them, Safi found the source of the endless thundering. A young man—with braids like the girl’s—pounded an enormous horizontal drum.
Safi wished she could break his mallet in half.
Though more than that, she wished she could get a breath of fresh air. “Gods below,” she swore, turning back to the girl. “What is that stench?”
“It’s chum. We save our offal.” The girl flicked a gleaming scale off the closest barrel, and now that Safi examined the planks around her, she found many scales. Leaking from the barrels, clinging to the sides. “It’s for the sea foxes,” the girl added. “We have to feed them when we pass by or they’ll attack.”
“The … sea foxes,” Safi repeated flatly. “As in the mythical serpents that feast on human flesh?”
“Hye.” The girl’s ready smile flashed again.
“But surely you don’t believe in them. They’re just stories to scare children—like mountain bats. Or the Twelve Paladins.”
“Which are also real,” the girl argued. As if to prove her point, she pried a worn pile of gold-backed taro cards from her pocket and flipped over the top card.
It was the Paladin of Foxes, and a furry teal serpent coiled around a sword. Its fox-like face stared at Safi.
“Nice trick,” Safi murmured, fingers itching for the deck. She’d seen many taro cards in her life, but she’d never seen ones with sea foxes instead of normal red foxes. It made her wonder what was painted on the other five suits.
“Not a trick,” the girl countered. “I’m just showing you what a sea fox looks like. They’re these huge serpents in water, see? But every few decades, they shed their skins and come to shore as beautiful women who seduce men—”
“And drag them to their graves,” Safi finished. “The mountain bat legend is the same. But what I want to know is if you’ve actually seen a sea fox.”
“No. Although,” the girl rushed to add, “some of the older crew claim they fought foxes during the War.”
“I see,” Safi drawled—and she did see. Merik and his captains must keep the chum onboard to appease the more superstitious in their ranks—just like Uncle Eron sent sheep to the Hasstrel caves each year for the “mountain bats.”
Throughout her childhood, Safi had scoured the alpine forests around the Hasstrel estate for any sign of a bat-like dragon. She’d combed the nearby caves, where the bats supposedly lived, and she’d spent hours beside the dead Earth Origin Well, waiting for a beautiful woman to suddenly appear.
But after ten years with nary a glimpse, Safi had finally accepted that mountain bats—if they’d ever existed—were as dead as the Well they lived beside.
Sea foxes, Safi decided, were no different.
“My name’s Ryber, by the way.” The girl bobbed her head. “Ryber Fortsa.”
“Safiya fon Hasstrel.”
Ryber bit her lip as if trying to stifle a grin. But then she gave up. “You’re a domna, right?” She flipped up another taro card.
The Witch. It showed a woman, face hidden, staring at an Origin Well—the Earth Origin Well, actually. Except that unlike the Well Safi had grown up exploring, the illustrated version was still alive. The six beech trees around it were burgeoning, the flagstone walkway intact, and the waters swirling.
As with the Paladin of Foxes, the image was nothing like any Witch card Safi had seen.
Ryber tapped the card back into her deck, and Safi returned her gaze to the sailors. One young man had caught her eye, his face sweaty and painfully red—and his skill with a cutlass nonexistent.
In the time it took Safi to crack all of her knuckle
s, he was disarmed twice by his opponent. The worst of it was that his opponent was not only nearing the age of retirement, but had a crippled leg too.
If Safi needed a cutlass any time soon, then this boy’s was the one to nab. “Your crew,” Safi said, tilting back to catch a fresh scampering of wind, “seems divided. Some can fight, but most can’t.”
Ryber sighed, an acknowledging sound. “We haven’t had much experience. The good ones”—she pointed to the old man with the limp—“fought in the War.”
“Isn’t it your first mate’s duty to make sure you improve?” Safi squinted at the tiller. Wind sent Kullen’s pale hair flying, and he still muttered alongside the other witches. Merik, however, was no longer there. “The mate isn’t even watching the drills.”
“’Cause he’s sailing us. Normally he does push us.”
Something about the defensive way Ryber spoke made Safi inspect the girl more closely. Despite her boyish figure and decidedly unflattering braids, Ryber wasn’t a homely girl. In fact, now that Safi was looking closely, she realized Ryber’s eyes were a brilliant silver. Not gray, but true, shimmery silver.
The First Mate would have to be blind not to fall in love with those eyes.
“So you’re together,” Safi prodded.
“No,” Ryber said quickly—much too quickly. “He’s a good first mate is all. Fair and smart.”
The lie fretted down Safi’s skin, and she had to bite back a smile as she slid her attention to Kullen. All she saw was an enormous man with a powerful witchery—a man who could all too easily take Safi down. Yet perhaps there was more behind his icy exterior.
Ryber heaved a long sigh and plied another card from her deck. The Paladin of Hounds. She stared at the hound-like serpent, also wrapped around a sword, and there was an emptiness in her eyes that spoke of things best forgotten. But then her gaze settled on Kullen; the lines on her face relaxed.
Ryber and the first mate were together, and it was more than just a dalliance. It was serious and it ran deep.
True.
Safi’s lips pursed. She and Ryber seemed to be around the same age, yet here was something Safi knew little about. She’d had romances in Veñaza City. Flirtations with young men like the Chiseled Cheater, but those encounters had always ended in quick kisses and even quicker goodbyes.
“Does the prince,” she asked absently, “have relations with anyone?” Safi tensed, instantly wishing she could snatch back those words. She didn’t know where they’d come from. “I mean, is it allowed for Prince Merik’s crew to have relations?”
“Not with each other,” Ryber answered. “Also, we’re off Nubrevnan soil, Domna. That makes the prince Admiral Nihar.”
That caught Safi’s attention, and she embraced the distraction wholeheartedly. “The prince’s title changes according to where he is?”
“Sure it does. Doesn’t yours?”
“No.” Safi bit her lip as a fresh burst of salty wind lashed behind the barrels. Rather than cool her, though, it seemed to scald—to make fresh sweat bead on her brow. But this was different heat from before—an angry heat. A frightened heat.
And she only got hotter as Ryber went on to describe how Merik’s rationing of meals had upset a lot of men and only widened the gap between those who supported Merik and those in favor of Princess Vivia. How dirty and overcrowded the capital city had become since the Great War.
The potent truth behind these stories made Safi’s ankles bounce and her fingers curl. The world that Ryber described was nothing like the one Safi had left behind. There was poverty in the Dalmotti Empire—of course there was—but there wasn’t starvation.
Perhaps … perhaps Merik did need trade—even with a cursed estate like the Hasstrels.
Just as Safi towed in her leg to stand—to return to the cabin and check on Iseult—Evrane’s voice hit her ears.
“So you will let the girl die?” Evrane’s shouts swept up from the nearby ladder. Louder than the drilling sailors. Louder than the pounding drum. “You must take us ashore!”
Ice slid down Safi’s spine. Splintered through every piece of her. She rolled onto her knees, onto her feet. Then she stood, ignoring Ryber’s whispers to stay hidden. Just as she lifted above the barrels, Merik’s dark head appeared on the ladder. He climbed deftly onto the deck, his aunt’s cloaked figure behind.
Merik strode several paces forward, head swiveling as if he searched for someone, and sailors cleared aside.
Evrane stalked to his side. “That girl needs a Firewitch healer, Merik! She will die without one!”
Merik didn’t answer—even when Evrane’s voice lifted with fury and she demanded that Merik take them ashore.
Safi’s fingers flexed. Her toes, her calves, her gut—everything tensed for action.
If Merik wasn’t willing to save Iseult’s life, then that simply confirmed he wasn’t Safi’s ally. So, contract or not, enemy sailors or not, Admiral Nihar was now Safi’s opponent and this ship was her battleground.
TWENTY
Merik had gone belowdecks to check on the domna. He didn’t like how he’d left her in the cabin. Her Threadsister was ill, and Merik understood how that could wrinkle a person’s disposition.
Whenever there were wrinkles, Merik had to smooth them out.
Besides, this was basically the only wrinkle he could fix at the moment. Vivia’s Voicewitch was hounding Hermin, demanding that Merik tell her where the Dalmotti trade ship was and refusing to back off until she had seen this new Hasstrel contract for herself.
Merik had lied—again—and claimed the trade ship was only half the distance it actually was, but he had a feeling Vivia was starting to catch on.
Before he could reach the passenger cabin, his aunt intercepted him at the bottom of the ladder. “We need to stop,” she declared, her face dark in the shadows but her silver hair glowing. “Iseult is too ill to survive much longer. What ports are near?”
“None that we can visit. We’re still in Dalmotti territory.” Merik tried to step onward.
Evrane cut him off, bristling. “What do you not understand about ‘too ill to survive’? This is nonnegotiable, Merik.”
“And this is not your ship to command.” Merik didn’t have the patience for this right now. “We stop when I say we stop, Aunt. Now stand aside so I can visit the domna.”
“She is not in the cabin.”
And just like that, the familiar pressure ignited beneath Merik’s skin. “Where,” he asked softly, “is she?”
“Topside, I assume.” Evrane flicked her wrists disinterestedly at the cargo space, as if to say, You do not see her here, do you?
“Yet,” Merik continued, his voice still dangerously low, “she was supposed to stay belowdecks. Why didn’t you keep her in the cabin?”
“Because that is not my responsibility.”
At those words, Merik’s temper fanned into flames. Evrane knew what was in the Hasstrel contract. She knew that Safiya had to stay belowdecks for safety reasons. A single drop of her blood could mark the end of the contract entirely.
And the thought of Safiya spilling blood … of her getting hurt …
He sprang up the ladder, his aunt’s words following him. “So you will let the girl die? You must take us ashore!”
Merik ignored his aunt. He would find Safiya and explain to her—gently, of course, and not with this fire controlling him—that she absolutely could not leave her cabin. She would listen, obey, and then Merik could relax again. No more wrinkles in sight.
Merik barked at his men to stand aside as he aimed for the quarterdeck. His magic wanted release, and try as he might, he was helpless to smooth it away.
“Admiral!”
Merik ground to a halt. That was Safiya’s voice. Behind him.
He twisted back slowly, his chest heaving now. His winds throbbing inside, worse than before. Worse than they’d been in years. His control was slipping away.
It shattered completely when he saw her standing at the center
of the deck, a cutlass in hand.
“You will take us ashore.” Her tone was cold and exact. “You will take us now.”
“You disobeyed orders,” Merik said, inwardly cursing. What happened to a gentle explanation? “I told you my word is law, I told you to stay belowdecks.”
Her only response was to raise the cutlass high. “If Iseult needs a Firewitch healer, then we will go ashore.”
Distantly, Merik realized that the wind-drum had stopped pounding. That the ship had started to rock without the Tidewitches to keep it calm.
Merik swept out his own cutlass. “Go belowdecks, Domna. Now.”
That made Safiya smile—a vicious thing—and she stepped calmly up to Merik’s blade. Then she rolled back her shoulders and pushed her chest against the tip. Her shirt dimpled in. “Get a Firewitch healer, Admiral, or I will make sure your contract is ruined.”
Heat pounded behind Merik’s eyeballs. Safiya would open her own skin. She would spill blood, and Merik would lose everything he’d worked for. Somehow, she knew what the contract said, and she was testing him.
So Merik lowered his blade.
Then he gave into his rage. The winds swept free, blasted over his sailors. “Kullen! Take her air!”
Safiya’s face drained of blood. “Coward!” she snarled. “Selfish coward!” She attacked.
Merik barely had enough time to launch himself backward toward his cabin before her blade slashed the air where his head had been.
He flew toward the quarterdeck, the word “coward” hitting his ears from all directions. It writhed from his sailors’ lips, and as he lowered to the deck, he found Kullen’s eyes in the crowd. The first mate shook his head—a sign that he would not help this time.
Then Merik understood why: his father’s sailors only saw a woman—a Cartorran woman at that—who’d called their new admiral a “coward.” If Vivia or Serafin were leading this ship, then justice would be swift, thorough, and violent. These men expected that. Demanded it.