Chapter 11

Fuck.

Pulling the door shut, I glance at Iven approaching down the hallway, hand dragging along the gold-brushed handrail to steady him against the swell, the other balancing a gilded tray topped with a large cloche.

He tips his head when he draws close. “The meal you requested, High Master.”

I lift the lid, revealing a bowl of steamed trout in a milky broth, crusty bread, and a stumpy chalice of sea-greens. I break off a fleshy piece of citrus-and-salt-spiced fish that melts in my mouth, but it does nothing to make me feel even the least bit satisfied.

“Toss it to the gulls,” I mutter, stamping the cloche on the immaculate feast.

“All of it?”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

Iven’s round, ruddy cheeks lose their pallor, eyes darting to the door behind me and back again. “She’s ... not hungry, sire?”

“Apparently not. She also said she’d rather eat with the rats than share a meal with me right now,” I say through a stencil smile.

I stalk past, shoving through the door that leads to the upper deck.

The breeze attempts to corral me the moment I step outside—a sharp chill pushing from the North. It whines and whips at the loose sail as a heavy, gray cloud shoves in front of the sun, casting the scene in a solemn shroud to fit my fucking mood.

The air is charged, the swarming crew securing anything loose to the deck and preparing the ship for the worst. Something bumps against the side, and I scan the deluge of Bahari scraps littering the ocean.

I spot my quartermaster holding a spyglass to his eye as he inspects the roiling horizon.

“We need to leave,” I yell, charging forward. “Now. I don’t want to lose another ship to this shit show.”

“Agreed.” He slams the spyglass into its holster. “I’ll signal the others to raise sail.” Brow arched, he digs through his leather satchel and hands me a rusty key. “She settled in?”

Pocketing the key, I make for the bow, muttering a curt, “No.”

I retrieve the splinter from my pocket—the remaining sliver of wood from Captain Gunthar’s sunken ship—and pinch the sharp tip between my teeth. I blaze down three flights of stairs, then a glum, poky hallway that leads to the stowage. A kid no older than ten is crouched by the door at the end of the hall, peering through the keyhole.

“I’m sure this area’s out of bounds …”

He spins, cheeks reddening. “High Master. I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Zane, is it?”

His eyes widen. “You know my name?”

“Of course. You’re Gunthar’s nephew, correct?”

“Yes, sire.” He drops into a bow, then straightens, chest puffed. “I’m good friends with the future High Mistress.”

Well.

I remove the splinter from my mouth and crouch, meeting his gaze at eye level before flashing him a half smile. “That makes us instant friends.”

His freckle-dusted cheeks swell with a grin, and he nods. “I’d like that very much.”

“Good. Now,” I say, roughing up his hair, “close the door at the top of the stairs on your way out.”

“Yes, sire.”

He takes off toward the stairwell, footsteps so silent I barely hear a thing, reminding me of Orlaith.

“Zane,” I call, before he disappears from sight.

He stops and turns, dashing hair from his eyes. “Yes, High Master?”

I point the splinter at him. “No more snooping through this keyhole, you hear?”

I’ve never seen a more enthusiastic nod.

“Good boy. Off you go.” I dismiss him with a flick of my hand, chewing the splinter while waiting for the door to snick shut at the top of the stairs. I jam the key in the hole and twist just as the ship creaks and groans—kicking forward.

The stowage door swings wide, and I step into the murk, screwing up my nose at the smell of piss, body odor, vomit, and hard liquor. There’s a lantern hanging off a hook by the door, and I turn its dial, spilling light throughout the room that’s half packed with barrels and crates and casks of spirits stacked against the walls.

And in the middle of it all is Vanth—on his knees, stretched arms bound around the wrists by separate ropes attached to opposite ends of the ceiling.

A soiled strip of rag gags him, his head lolled to the side and resting on his shoulder, right eye swollen and framed with a gnarly punch of purple skin.

I clear my throat.

Groaning, he sluggishly seeks me through a squint, then jerks to full awareness.

“Well,” I say, dragging a crate across the floor and sitting before him. I pull the splinter from between my pursed lips and point it directly at his face. “You, sir, look mighty uncomfortable.”

He nods, trying to shape words around the material clogging his mouth.

All that comes out is a garbled mess.

Retrieving the small blade strapped to my calf, I slide it between his cheek and the gag, watching him flinch as I cut it free.

“Better?”

He stretches his jaw before he speaks, the words coarse through his cracked lips. “Much. Thank you, High Master.”

“Of course. Thirsty?”

His gaze shifts to the bucket and ladle nearby. “It, ahh ... it has been a while since I’ve been offered a drink.”

I set my blade on the crate and drag the bucket close, then place the brimming scoop against his mouth and tip.

He drains it, and I repeat the process twice more before he nods.

“How’s that?”

“Much better,” he says through a deep, satiated breath. “Thank you, High Master.”

“Think nothing of it.” I toss the ladle back in the bucket and give him my full attention. “So, did you have something you wanted to say?”

He chews the inside of his mouth, appearing to deliberate. “Permission to speak freely, sire?”

“I’m all ears. Fire away.”

He nods, some of the tightness leaving his face, and even his strung-up posture seems to loosen. “I believe your promised has been deflowered by the High Master of Ocruth.”

My head kicks back, as though he just punched me in the face. “What drew you to that conclusion?”

“He refused to let her go,” he deadpans. “She had to fight her way free. Even so, I believe she carries a reminder of him with her … a pillow slip I’ve caught her sniffing more than once.”

Interesting.

“With all due respect, her loyalties are questionable.” He lifts his chin, looking me dead in the eye. “She’s a liability to our territory.”

“My territory.”

“Your territory,” he blurts with a dip of his head, his deep, grated voice hitching. “Sorry, High Master.”

“Forgiven. Slip of words.” Rolling the splinter between my fingers, I let the sharp end drag against my tongue. “So, let me get this straight. Your concern is that my judge of character is … lacking?”

The pulse in his neck ratchets into a frenzy. “No, that’s not what I sai—”

“It’s what you implied, Vanth.”

His mouth moves as though he’s shaping words he doesn’t have the balls to speak.

“And tell me,” I continue, “did you or did you not shove my promised overboard?”

When words seem to evade him again, I say, “Nod for yes, shake for no.”

Slowly, he nods.

Right.

“So, what happened, Vanth? There’s a missing chapter in here”—I tap my temple—”and Orlaith is reluctant to give me ... well, anything. Be a good man and fill in the blanks, would you?”

A bead of sweat darts down his temple. “I—I don’t remember much. I was blackout drunk, sire.”

“Yes, I gathered that from the general aroma in here. Before that, though?”

He grimaces, spitting his response through clenched teeth. “She’s the reason my brother is dead.”

Ahh.

“I was forced to put—” his voice cracks, a coarse sob pushing through, “to put Kavan out of his misery. All because she ruined my perfect shot.”

“I see,” I mumble, flipping the splinter through my fingers. “Eye for an eye?”

“No … I mean yes, my brother’s gone—”

“See, that I understand.”

Relief flashes across his face before he deflates like a spent lung and drops his stare to the floor.

I blow out a breath and recline. “There’s a hiccup, though.”

He frowns, glancing up. “Hiccup?”

“Yes. What’s this I hear about mutiny?”

His mouth falls open.

“Captain Gunthar’s a good fellow. A level-headed man. Certainly one of my best, which is why I trusted him to transport such precious cargo back to the capital. I can’t for the life of me understand why you’d question his authority.”

The stuffy air grows taut.

“I ... I believed killing the beast would be the best option to preserve the life of your promised, sire.”

“Whom you later tried to murder.”

Silence.

The reek of fear ratchets up, coating the back of my throat.

“Nod for yes. Shake for no.”

It takes him a minute, but he finally nods. Once. A small, feeble thing.

“Right,” I mutter.

“I assumed—”

“You assumed wrong.”

He shuts his mouth so fast I hear his teeth clank together.

I grab my dagger, set the tip atop the crate, then flick it into a whirl and watch it spin. “Kavan was a great man. But Vanth … you almost cost me everything.”

Snatching the blade in one hand, I drag the splinter’s honed tip along a deep scratch ripped across his neck—like Orlaith clawed at him, frantic and desperate—then use it to pierce the underside of his chin. He sucks a hiss through clenched teeth, eyes popping as I press firm enough to send blood shooting down the splinter’s length and across the expanse of my fingers.

“Now, be a good lad and poke out your tongue for your High Master.”

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “High Master,please—”

“I won’t ask twice.”

A gasp inflates his chest. “I—I have a token! A favor passed down through generations since our ancestor’s home was destroyed to make way for the wall!”

Well.

Leaning back, I look him up and down. “Where is it?”

“My pants pocket. The left one. I always keep it close.”

“That’s handy,” I mutter, flicking the splinter on the floor. I weave my bloody hand in, drag my finger along the line of stitching, then pull it inside out. I lift a brow.

“The—the other one! I must have put it in the other one ...”

I dig into the other, pulling out a Bahari blue cupla with gold accents. “What’s this?”

His chin wobbles, and he looks at me through a sheen of tears. “K-Kavan was tasked with returning that to the forgery. A task he took very seriously. I want to complete it for him,” he says, voice cracking. “It’s the last thing I can do.”

“How sweet.”

I tuck it in my back pocket, and his eyes widen as I search his pocket again, flipping it inside out. “Nothing else there, Vanth.”

He turns a sickly shade of gray, then his face twists into an angry knot. “The kid must have taken it. He’s a little pickpocket!”

“Well, you should take better care of your things,” I chide. “Tongue. Now.”

His crotch blooms with wetness, the tang of piss ripening the air. He makes a wobbly, wailing sound that’s caught behind his lips before he finally parts them, pushing his tongue out slower than a threatened snail.

“Good boy.”

I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger, whipping the blade through so fast I doubt he realizes it’s gone until the thick chunk of flesh thuds to the floor between us.

There’s a flash of disbelief, and then he screams a wild, bubbling howl, blood painting his chin and chest.

I grip his chin—grip it hard—forcing him to hold my stare as he releases an anguished sob. “Now, tell me you’re sorry.”

He sucks a shuddered breath and, eyes desperate and pleading, releases a pathetic, garbled whine.

I click my tongue. “Not good enough, I’m afraid.”

Swiping my bloody knife on his pants, I spin toward the exit. “Don’t choke on the blood,” I mutter, slamming the door behind me. “I’m not done with you yet.”