by Natalie Mae
And there it is. “Why would you fire my history tutor?”
“Do you want the long story or the short one?”
Someone blows an oxhorn from the boat—the first call for boarding.
“The short one,” I say.
“The short one is that I’m now your history tutor, and I’m coming with you on the hunt!”
I almost scream in joy. “What! Really?”
“Yes! See, the guards told me advisors weren’t allowed to come, Mestrah’s orders, blah blah. So I asked who was allowed, and realized history was something I really could teach you. Especially if I borrowed your tutor’s notes. And now I’m coming!”
Mora puts a hand on Hen’s shoulder. “You destroyed the evidence, right?”
Hen rolls her eyes. “It was the first thing I did, Mora.”
“Evidence?” I exchange a glance with my father. And with Jet, who looks similarly concerned.
Hen nods. “I couldn’t find anything to blackmail him with. Seriously, it’s like the man has followed the rules all of his very long life.” She sighs. “Very boring. So I gave him a disease.”
I grip her arms. “You what?”
“On paper,” she clarifies. “I just wrote to the Healers that he was exposed to fleshrot on a recent vacation, and he needs to be quarantined a few weeks to make sure he doesn’t have it. Then I burned the letter so no one looks into the fake Healer name I used.”
We’re starting to get into long story territory, and this is where I draw the line so I can maintain plausible deniability. “That’s amazing. This is the best news I’ve heard all week—”
Fara clears his throat, and I let go of Hen.
“I mean,” I say, in my best scolding tone, “you shouldn’t have put a man into quarantine just to come on this trip!” I lower my voice to a whisper. “But I’m really glad you did.”
“Oh, he got off easy.” Hen brushes sand from the shoulder of her green jole. “You should have seen the dirt I pulled up on the hiring advisor to make sure I got this job.”
Fara steps over. “All right, that’s enough talk of . . . whatever this is. Zahru, how are you feeling about this?”
“I’m doing fine, actually,” I say, not that I would admit to my father if I was anxious, lest he spend the entire time I’m gone worrying and not sleeping. “There’s still a lot to do, and I’m nervous about making the right choices about the lion. But there will be a lot of people on the boat, and the Wraithguard . . . and especially with Hen along, I feel like I can do this.”
I’m startled to find I actually believe this. Maybe it’s because I now have a friend fluent in blackmail and petty crime at my beck and call, or maybe I’m just overly optimistic that I’ll find something on Kasta. Or maybe I’ve gone over to the other side of stressed and I’ll break down crying later tonight. But for now, with Hen at my side and a knife in my tunic, I feel oddly charged.
“Please be safe,” Fara says, his strong arms tightening around me. “It’s very hard watching you sail away again.”
I squeeze him gently. “I’ll be back again. Just like last time.”
Mora draws me in next, pressing a wet kiss to my cheek. “Of course you will, kar-a. Especially with these.”
Something heavy drops into my pocket, and I pull the fabric open to see three small glass potions.
Mora winks. “In case you want to make Prince Kasta’s journey as enjoyable for him as he made your last one.”
I frown at the small tarantula floating in the topmost bottle. “You realize that even as dōmmel, I’m still not allowed to kill people, right?”
Mora laughs, drawing my dark hair over my shoulders. “Oh, no, my dear. They’ll only make him wish he was dead.”
I hug her tight. “Gods, you scare me. But I love you so much.”
“I love you, too. Do watch out for each other, won’t you?”
“You know we will.”
The oxhorn sounds again, and a soldier from the docks starts our way. I have a feeling I’m going to be escorted soon if I don’t go on my own.
“Love you, Fara,” I say, giving him one last hug.
“Love you too,” he says.
“Zahru?” Jet asks. “A moment?”
I nod. “Of course.”
We step off to the side of the oak walkway, into the shadow of the packing crates. Hen doesn’t even try to hide that she’s watching us—she just crosses her arms and waits at Mora’s side, smiling and staring like we’re an act in a play. But Jet was literally born with anti-Hen magic, and when the bubble of silence closes around us, Hen scowls.
“How are you really feeling about the hunt?” Jet asks.
I exhale, looking past his shoulder to the boat. “Honestly, I think I’m all right. I want to catch him. I want to find something.”
Jet knows I’m not talking about Odelig, and for a moment, he’s quiet. “You’re not scared, are you.”
It’s not a question. It makes me smile, a little, that he would think I’m this fearless.
“I’m nervous,” I admit. “I don’t want to mess up and tip Kasta off. But scared?” I probably should be scared. People conspiring to sneak through a Shifter’s personal effects should definitely be scared. But I think of Maia, of the scar over my heart, and shrug. “The only thing I’m scared of is not being able to stop him.”
Something unreadable flashes across Jet’s face. He glances at my pocket, where Mora’s potions sit, and takes a breath. “I had trouble sleeping last night, thinking of you out there with him again, while I have to be here. Not that I was much help in the caves.” He grunts. “But it sounds like I don’t need to worry.”
I don’t understand the sadness in his voice. “You did fine in the caves. Kasta had the Illesa, and the protection bracelet, and he just got lucky, being able to knock you out. But no, I know what I’m dealing with now. You don’t need to worry.”
He looks over his shoulder, squinting at the river. “Good. Just . . . don’t forget to be careful, all right?”
I smile. “Careful is my middle name.”
He tips his head. “That is a blatant lie.”
“It was almost my middle name. Before—”
“You snuck into a Crossing banquet? Or dove headlong into danger to help Melia and me? Or handed Kasta a sacrificial knife?”
This is hard to argue with, and I close my mouth.
Jet sighs. “Listen, it’s just . . . I’ve been down this path before. I know what it feels like to want revenge. It cost me more than I would ever trade again.” He crosses his arms. “Be careful.”
I’m not sure he’s only talking about gathering evidence, and my ribs tighten at the realization that, as much as I want to assure him bringing Kasta down won’t change me, the first suggestion I made two days ago was to commission a highly illegal necklace.
I smile. “Don’t worry. I’m still me.”
A feeling prickles over my skin, but Jet pulls away before I can identify what it is. I join Hen’s side, looking over my shoulder, where Mora and Fara watch me with worry, and Jet with something harder. But he manages a smile when I wave, and I thread my arm through Hen’s and turn for the boat.
Kasta watches us come from the prow, the enchantments in the railing lighting under his hands like fire. His arms flex, the wind pulling the sharp tails of his cape. A curved, jagged sword glints from his hip.
I touch the potions through my pocket.
No, I may feel many things for this trip, but afraid is not one of them.
XII
MY first chance to spy on Kasta doesn’t come until the second day.
After the royal city fades behind a wall of palm trees and heat, I’m immediately escorted to the captain’s cabin—a little enclosed room with darkened windows that I would have found dismal if the wooden walls didn’t look like they were lacquered by
a rainbow—for my schooling lessons. I vow that at the first break I get, I’ll case the boat and find Kasta’s room, but these people are relentless. My tutors cycle in one after another, and the servants bring my lunch, and outside the cities slide away into orange plateaus and desert brush as we enter the uninhabited stretches of northwestern Orkena. I consider using the time meant for my history lesson with Hen to search the boat, but I don’t want to tip her off that I’m after Kasta, so I just enjoy her company and declare that she is indeed far less boring than my prior tutor.
By the time I’m finished, Numet has lowered her lantern below the horizon, and the chefs are preparing dinner belowdecks. And though I do locate Kasta’s room on the first sublevel of the boat—right next to mine, of course—I’m informed he’s inside. He doesn’t come out for dinner, because we are not serving human flesh. He does not come out all night. Rie raises his white lantern above the dunes, and exhaustion pulls at me, and finally I give in and go to sleep.
In the morning, the servants drop off my hunting satchel and ask me to add any personal effects I’ll need for the hunt, and I freeze halfway into hiding Mora’s potions in the bottom of the bag. They’re going to ask this of Kasta, too. And what better place to hide whatever animal pelts he’ll want in the wilderness than at the bottom of his personal sack?
“Where are you storing these bags?” I ask the servant who returns to collect it.
The boy bows. “There’s a closet abovedecks. I can show you.”
I smile. “Please do.”
He leads me up the narrow stairs and into the sun, where, toward the back of the boat, a wide closet connects to an enclosed glass dining space. The door faces the river, out of view of everyone but a couple guards at the railing. My smile widens as the servant places my bag inside with a dozen others.
“Is Kasta’s bag here yet?” I ask.
“Not yet,” the servant says. “We will be sure to get it, though, dōmmel.”
Noted.
It’s in this good mood that I start my lessons, with the plan that when Hen comes in, I’ll ask for a break and go back to search the closet. That should be plenty of time for the servants to have added Kasta’s bag. Then the trickiest part of it is simply keeping Hen’s suspicions at bay, but I already have a plan for that, too, which is really the most impressive part of this whole ordeal.
“Hen,” I whisper later that day, as she sets out little sketches of past Mestrahs like a game board on the desk. There’s actually no reason to whisper, since we’re alone and the captain’s cabin is soundproof. But it feels more official this way.
“I’m in,” Hen says, even though I haven’t said anything else. “What do you need?”
I would ask how she already knows I’m up to no good, but if I’m honest, it would be more alarming to me if she didn’t. “I need you to play lookout.”
“I’m on it. Where and why?”
I hesitate. This is the part of the plan I don’t like so much, because it involves lying. “I need to search through the hunting satchels. I don’t want Kasta to see me.”
“Easy.”
She blinks expectantly, and I know I’m not going to get away with not saying why.
“I want to check his pack for poisons,” I say. “And get rid of them. As well as anything else he might plan to use on me and not Odelig.”
Then again, I’m thinking this is not so terrible a lie, because this actually is something I need to check for, too. I’m just leaving out another big part of it.
Her eyes narrow. “Oh, that’s very good. That way if he plans to get stabby again, or something comes to eat him in the night—he’s got nothing.” She taps her lip with a finger. “All right, I know what I’m going to do.”
“It needs to be subtle,” I add. “Don’t even go near him unless you have to. And maybe bribe someone else to do the distracting, so he doesn’t suspect I’m involved? Or whatever it is you do.”
Hen tsks like a disappointed mother. “Zahru. This is what I live for.”
So it is. We leave the Mestrah sketches on the desk and emerge, squinting, into the heat of high afternoon. Beyond the iron railings, the banks have narrowed, the sand thinning to make way for thicker bushes and lusher grass. Shining merchant boats and weatherworn fishing ships zip by in droves. We’re only a few hours from the forest that marks the border between us and Pe, and this is the fastest route for mountain traders and travelers to reach our desert cities.
We’re nearing the back of the ship, and I’ve just pointed out the closet to Hen, when the deck tilts hard under our feet.
“Gods,” I say, clinging to Hen as we scramble for balance. The brown sail of a fishing boat flies past far too close, and overhead on the captain’s stand, a soldier leans on the railing.
“Hey!” he shouts at the boat. “Watch your speed!”
He grumbles about civilian sailors, and even though what I’m about to do is in no way a crime—not entirely—I’m grateful the guards’ attention has shifted to the river.
“No Kasta in sight,” Hen says, her black hair fanning as she turns back to me. “I’m going to make sure it stays that way. You won’t see me, but unless you hear a scream, assume you’re fine to keep looking.”
I find this both comforting and extremely disturbing. “You do mean your own scream, right?”
Hen shrugs. “Possibly.”
I’m afraid to ask a follow-up question. Hen takes this as her cue and heads back the way we came, past the glass walls of the dining room and toward the prow, where another door leads down to the kitchen and bedrooms. I decide this is another perk of being dōmmel, since absolutely no one can question what I’m doing here except for Kasta—not to mention I have every reason to be here, since my pack is here as well. I’m possibly a little too excited to begin my life as a spy, because I throw open the door with a flourish.
Kasta’s hunting satchel stands out among the others, the only one as large as mine and nearly identical, except the stitched lanterns and suns along its sides are white, not gold. With a glance over my shoulder, I flip it open.
Rolls of clothes greet me: the deep dyed greens and browns of forest tunics meant to blend with leaves; a cloak for cooler nights. Soft leather boots and a coil of white rope. I dig under the clothes and push aside a quill and capped tube of black ink. The listening scroll is blank, and I’m getting frustrated that this can’t be all he’s packed when I consider the servants are handling these bags. Kasta would know this, and he’d be careful.
Maybe there’s a secret compartment.
I feel along the rough stitching at the bottom, pulling and prying. My nail catches under a rigid portion of one side, and I muffle a shriek of delight as I pull it upward and—
It’s empty.
For a moment I can only stare. I flip the false bottom over; I check through again in case I missed the glint of a tooth or the edge of a feather. But there’s nothing. My pack didn’t have this extra piece, so he must have added it, confirming that he brought something to hide . . . and that I’m already too late in finding it. He must be keeping the pelts on his person.
This realization sends a jolt through me, remembering how I got critical items from him last time: my arms around his neck, his mouth parting mine. I shiver, shoving the memory aside, and touch the literal scar he left over my heart.
If he’s carrying pelts, I will find them.
I growl and close the compartment, reorganize his effects, and shove the bag angrily next to mine.
Which is when I hear the scream—and the boat lists hard to the side, sending me to the floor.
“Brace!” the captain cries outside. “Guards—”
BOOM. An explosion rocks the boat, shattering the closet’s round window and showering me with glass. I stare in disbelief at the slender lines of crimson beading across my arms.
What did Hen do?
&n
bsp; Shouts fill the air; running feet stamp the deck. I push satchels off me and burst out of the closet—and run straight into the servant who took my bag this morning.
“D-dōmmel,” he stammers, as we catch our balance on each other. His fear flashes through me before he quickly lets go. “I’m so sorry. I’m here for the bags.”
This strikes me as not the most relevant info to impart. “What was that?”
“A cannonball.” He blinks, and his eyes widen in horror. “We’re under attack. The Wraiths think you’re in the captain’s cabin!”
My stomach drops. We’re under attack. I can think of only one group in particular who would dare attack us, even though the Mestrah insisted it would be foolish to do so. This is not one of Hen’s distractions.
Wyrim sent more mercenaries.
I shove past the man, into the sun. “Hen!”
“Get down!” the guards shout.
A flaming barrel arcs up over the deck. It seems to hang there above me, spinning in slow motion, before I dive to the side and it splits behind me in a long trail, showering silver powder across the boards. Flames engulf the deck. A Wraith emerges from the captain’s cabin in his red armor and gleaming white tunic, but just as he finds me beneath the smoke, the fire roars into a wall.
Cutting me off from the rest of the boat.
“Hen,” I whisper.
The deck shakes. Cables slam into the side of our boat as two fishing vessels, both clustered with mercenaries, latch on to us. Our attackers look like common bandits with their faces covered and their dark tunics, except they wear steel armor, and none of them wield magic the way Orkenian bandits would. The sail of one ship juts high over my head, where the prow ran right into us.
Cannons roll on their decks. In the crow’s nest of the closest ship, a bandit shouts, and the crews start to leap over.
“It’ll be fine,” I mock. “Go off into the desert while a war is brewing! What’s the worst that could happen?”
