handkerchief, still clutched in his fingers, yanked roughly through the bars. As the horses charged ahead he saw the Fulbreech boy on the street corner, waving goodbye.
The joyful whines of the mastiffs turned to whimpers: their mistress had not stirred to greet them. Jorl nudged Thasha’s chin with his muzzle. Suzyt padded in breathless circles as the party crossed the stateroom.
“Quickly, now,” said Hercól.
They laid her on the bench under the tall gallery windows. Hercól opened the cabinet beneath the bench and reached inside, and when his hand emerged it held a naked sword. Pazel had seen Hercól’s sword before—seen it dark with blood, and a whirl in fights—but he had never beheld it this closely. The blade was dark and cruel, and nicked in two places. A flowing script ran up the steel, but the years had worn the engraving almost to nothing.
Hercól noticed his look. “Ildraquin,” he said. “Earthblood. That is its name. One day I shall tell you its story.”
He turned and swiftly inspected the chamber, then moved on to the sleeping cabins and the Isiqs’ private washroom. When he returned Ildraquin was sheathed.
“No one has entered in our absence,” he said. “We are as safe here as one can be on this ship.”
“Then I’d best see to my duties, if you don’t need me,” said Fiffengurt.
“We need you,” said Hercól. “But we need you most as quartermaster. Who else will keep us informed of Rose’s schemes?”
Fiffengurt shook his head. “Rose trusts me like I trust a rattlesnake. Still, I overhear things, now and again. What I learn, I’ll share. And I’ll send Thasha’s father to you the instant he boards.”
“You’re a good plum, Mr. Fiffengurt,” said Pazel.
“Seeing as you’re an Ormali, lad, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They locked the door behind him. For a moment no one moved or spoke.
Then Hercól said, “Are you here, Diadrelu?”
“Of course.”
The voice came from overhead. There she was, atop the book cabinet: a woman with copper skin, short hair, black clothes, gleaming eyes. An ixchel woman, a queen until she cast her lot with humans. Crouched on the edge of the cabinet she looked no larger than a dormouse. Standing, she might have been eight inches tall.
“I know you trust the quartermaster,” she said, looking down at them intently, “but I must tell you that we consider him one of the most dangerous humans aboard. He is inquisitive, and he knows more about the crawlways and secret spaces of the Chathrand than anyone save Rose himself. And when he speaks of my people they are crawlies , and a note of disgust enters his voice.”
“Fiffengurt hates ixchel?” said Neeps. “I don’t believe it! He’s the most softhearted old sailor I’ve ever met.”
“But a sailor nonetheless,” said Diadrelu, “and schooled in the vices of sailing folk. I do not know if his feelings stem from his past experience or general fear. But I will not soon reveal our presence to this ally of yours.”
“We wouldn’t ask you to,” said Pazel.
Dri gestured at the stateroom door. “Someone tried to pick the lock while you were on the island,” she said. “Twice. I jammed the mechanism with my sword.”
“Well done,” said Neeps.
But Hercól shook his head. “What if they had forced the door? You would have been caught in plain sight.”
“Hercól Stanapeth,” said the ixchel woman, “I have lived my whole life within yards of human beings, men who would have killed me without a second thought. You have little to teach me about stealth.”
Hercól smiled, not quite conceding the point. “Are you ready, my lady?” he asked.
For an answer the woman descended—three shelves in the blink of an eye, a spring to the back of Isiq’s divan, another to Hercól’s shoulder, and a last jump to the bench under the window, a few inches from Thasha’s neck. When their eyes caught up with her, they saw that she was holding something sharp and
The joyful whines of the mastiffs turned to whimpers: their mistress had not stirred to greet them. Jorl nudged Thasha’s chin with his muzzle. Suzyt padded in breathless circles as the party crossed the stateroom.
“Quickly, now,” said Hercól.
They laid her on the bench under the tall gallery windows. Hercól opened the cabinet beneath the bench and reached inside, and when his hand emerged it held a naked sword. Pazel had seen Hercól’s sword before—seen it dark with blood, and a whirl in fights—but he had never beheld it this closely. The blade was dark and cruel, and nicked in two places. A flowing script ran up the steel, but the years had worn the engraving almost to nothing.
Hercól noticed his look. “Ildraquin,” he said. “Earthblood. That is its name. One day I shall tell you its story.”
He turned and swiftly inspected the chamber, then moved on to the sleeping cabins and the Isiqs’ private washroom. When he returned Ildraquin was sheathed.
“No one has entered in our absence,” he said. “We are as safe here as one can be on this ship.”
“Then I’d best see to my duties, if you don’t need me,” said Fiffengurt.
“We need you,” said Hercól. “But we need you most as quartermaster. Who else will keep us informed of Rose’s schemes?”
Fiffengurt shook his head. “Rose trusts me like I trust a rattlesnake. Still, I overhear things, now and again. What I learn, I’ll share. And I’ll send Thasha’s father to you the instant he boards.”
“You’re a good plum, Mr. Fiffengurt,” said Pazel.
“Seeing as you’re an Ormali, lad, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They locked the door behind him. For a moment no one moved or spoke.
Then Hercól said, “Are you here, Diadrelu?”
“Of course.”
The voice came from overhead. There she was, atop the book cabinet: a woman with copper skin, short hair, black clothes, gleaming eyes. An ixchel woman, a queen until she cast her lot with humans. Crouched on the edge of the cabinet she looked no larger than a dormouse. Standing, she might have been eight inches tall.
“I know you trust the quartermaster,” she said, looking down at them intently, “but I must tell you that we consider him one of the most dangerous humans aboard. He is inquisitive, and he knows more about the crawlways and secret spaces of the Chathrand than anyone save Rose himself. And when he speaks of my people they are crawlies , and a note of disgust enters his voice.”
“Fiffengurt hates ixchel?” said Neeps. “I don’t believe it! He’s the most softhearted old sailor I’ve ever met.”
“But a sailor nonetheless,” said Diadrelu, “and schooled in the vices of sailing folk. I do not know if his feelings stem from his past experience or general fear. But I will not soon reveal our presence to this ally of yours.”
“We wouldn’t ask you to,” said Pazel.
Dri gestured at the stateroom door. “Someone tried to pick the lock while you were on the island,” she said. “Twice. I jammed the mechanism with my sword.”
“Well done,” said Neeps.
But Hercól shook his head. “What if they had forced the door? You would have been caught in plain sight.”
“Hercól Stanapeth,” said the ixchel woman, “I have lived my whole life within yards of human beings, men who would have killed me without a second thought. You have little to teach me about stealth.”
Hercól smiled, not quite conceding the point. “Are you ready, my lady?” he asked.
For an answer the woman descended—three shelves in the blink of an eye, a spring to the back of Isiq’s divan, another to Hercól’s shoulder, and a last jump to the bench under the window, a few inches from Thasha’s neck. When their eyes caught up with her, they saw that she was holding something sharp and
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