Jason steeled himself, though it wasn’t the first time a woman had begged for something he couldn’t give. Except Meghan hardly looked a woman—he’d be surprised if she was past eighteen. Maybe that was why her story sounded ever-so-slightly dramatic, as though she was trying to get an instinctive emotional response out of him.
Or hell, it could have been because she had no other choice. If she didn’t want to be handed over to Richard, he couldn’t blame her for staking everything on an attempt to sway him. Though he knew a way to cut through all that.
“Did you kill a man?” he said.
Her head came up as if someone had yanked a hidden string, and the color died out of her face. Difficult even for him to read her eyes, but she didn’t drop her gaze as she answered.
“I picked the lock with a knife I’d hidden and ran.” Her fingers were clenched so tightly on the sheet that the bones of her knuckles seemed about to burst through the skin. “He was on the deck when I climbed out. He grabbed at me and I kicked him in the knee. Then he fell on top of me, while I was holding the knife. So yes, he’s dead because of me.”
Jason said nothing while he considered, but approaching footsteps sounded in the silence. Meghan’s head turned, though nothing was visible in the darkness of the hold.
“If Captain Garser wanted me executed, I wouldn’t be begging you to help,” she said quietly. “I’m tired of all this. I just want to be left alone. But—”
She stopped as a shadow slanted into the brig. Jason looked up to see Drale, who unlocked the brig door and stepped back. Lera came forward, a towel over one arm, a steaming pail in her hands and a stony expression nailed to her face.
“What’s that for?” Jason said.
“Captain Garser asked me to help clean her up.” Because I’m a woman, I suppose, were the unspoken words he heard. “So it won’t look like she’s been badly treated on board.”
“I’m not going to wash,” Meghan said flatly.
“I don’t recall asking you.”
“I’m not going to.” She shifted on the pallet, shuffling away so she was as far from the brig door as possible, and looked at Jason. “Don’t you understand?”
Jason decided against pointing out that Richard could always force her to get cleaned up in preparation for having his way with her, but before he could think what to say to Lera, another deckhand appeared, carrying a bowl. The food smelled pungent with spice, and it made him realize he had missed breakfast, but Meghan’s face crumpled into a grimace.
“Oh, not more.” She closed her eyes. “Please take it away. Or eat it yourself, I don’t care.”
“You might want to keep your strength up,” Jason said mildly. She was too thin, though he wasn’t sure if it was her own doing or Garser making sure his prisoner wasn’t in any shape to run far if she escaped again.
“I can’t eat it. There’s ginger in the sauce.”
“You don’t like ginger?”
She shrugged wearily, a twitch of one shoulder. “I could never eat it. Makes my mouth swell up.”
Lera tapped one toe on the floor. “This water’s not getting any hotter.” She turned to Drale. “What are you going to do—strip her and hold her down while I scrub?”
Drale looked as though that had definitely not been part of his job description, and Jason stepped into the breach. “Lera—I mean, Captain Vanze. May I speak to you alone?”
She seemed quite willing to postpone the unpleasant duty, so she stepped out of the brig and Jason followed her. Behind him, he heard Drale relocking the door. He led Lera a little deeper into the hold but stopped when they could still see each other in the edge of the glow from the lanterns near the brig. The shadows on her face deepened her eyes and made the straight strong cheekbones stand out further—well, the one which wasn’t hidden beneath scar tissue.
“We don’t have a choice about surrendering her to Richard,” he said, keeping his voice quiet, “but she implied he would rape her. I think we can do something about that, and if we’re sending her to his ship anyway, we might as well use it as an opportunity for a rescue.” If Kovir was still alive.
She grasped what he was saying at once. “You mean send someone with her.”
“Someone like you.” Jason knew Richard, as an aristocrat, might have been trained to wield a sword, but he would never have fought to defend his life. He would never have needed to. Pit him against Lera and she’d fillet him.
Her teeth caught at a corner of her lip as she considered, but she shook her head. “It wouldn’t work. Even if I dressed like a Dagran woman and said I was her—her maidservant or something, the moment I opened my mouth he’d know. And if he had any sense in his head, he’d have me searched or throw me in the brig to be on the safe side.”
“Oh, yes.” Jason grinned. “But I have another idea. I’m going to speak to Captain Garser, and I’ll be back as soon as he approves.”
“Wait, what do I do until then? You said we could do something so he wouldn’t rape her. Do you mean leaving her filthy?”
“Not at all. If the captain agrees with my suggestion, I’d like you to clean her up. Make her look almost as good as you do.”
The surprise on her face was enough to keep him smiling, albeit inwardly, as he hurried up the ladders to the upper decks and Garser’s cabin.
The room was warm and dry and blurred.
Kovir realized he’d opened his eyes without doing what he was supposed to do, which was pretend unconsciousness while he learned as much as possible about his surroundings. Years of training seemed to have deserted him, because all he could think about was how thirsty he was. He might have been in an oven that had baked him like a biscuit.
Perhaps he actually was in one, since what little he could see of the room around him was dim and featureless. He blinked, but no water came into sight, so he tried to sit up.
That was when he felt the ropes around his wrists.
Suddenly thirst was the least of his problems, because a jolt of fear cleared everything else from his mind. Two sets of ropes were stretched tight over the bunk, winding around his ankles and wrists so he couldn’t move them at all. Worse, he was naked. Despite the sheet covering him, he had never felt so vulnerable in his life.
He turned his head as far as he could, and something on the floor beside the bunk caught his eye. Thank the Unity, his watersuit lay in a crumpled heap, the rebreather tossed beside it. His relief didn’t last long, though, because he could hardly get up to dress. And his left arm hurt so badly he couldn’t have pulled the watersuit on in any case.
Lying still, he stared at the ceiling and thought of the shark.
She wasn’t hurt. That was good, and he thought he felt a little flare of happiness from her side of the link as she sensed his presence. Or it could have been the fever making him imagine things.
He sank from touch to hold and saw where she was—swimming in wide, dogged circles around Nemesis. She’d fed while he had been lying unconscious, because there was a comfortable fullness in her belly, but it was clear she didn’t know what to do and had fallen back on a steady but useless patrol formation.
At least he still had her. Though he couldn’t think what to do with her. He was on one of the lower decks of a ship, he could tell from the slight rocking of the bunk, so the shark certainly couldn’t help. Even if he locked with her, it wasn’t as if he and Captain Vanze had worked out a system of communication in advance—like, leap three times out of the water if Kovir Stripe Caller has been captured on his mission.
He supposed all he could do was rest and wait to see what his captors had planned. It could have been worse. If he’d been on a pirate galley, he’d have been looking for the nearest sharp object, either to fight his way out or cut his own throat, whichever was easier.
Footsteps in the distance grew steadily closer. Kovir thought about faking unconsciousness, but he was thirsty, and he
’d learned enough about his surroundings. He glanced up as a man came into sight.
The man wore a white apron that had clearly been stained and washed many times over, and he carried a lantern. From the way the apron’s pockets sagged, Kovir guessed there was something heavy in them, probably medical instruments. He licked his lips, which were dry and cracked.
“May I have some water?” he said.
The man hung the lantern from a jutting peg, then put the back of his hand to Kovir’s forehead before lifting his eyelids. Definitely the doctor, Kovir thought, trying not to imagine apple cider so cold the glass would be coated in dew.
Finally the doctor glanced in the direction he’d come from before he went out of sight. Kovir heard the slosh of liquid, followed by a metallic clinking as if something was being stirred. Then a tumbler was held to his mouth, and the doctor lifted Kovir’s head enough that he could drink. The water tasted slightly bitter and he guessed there was a drug in it, but he was too thirsty to care. Besides, if the Dagrans wanted him drugged, they didn’t need his cooperation to do it.
“Thank you,” he said when the tumbler was empty. He was still exhausted and far too warm, but at least his tongue didn’t feel too swollen for his mouth.
Without a word, the doctor left. Kovir felt uneasy. He didn’t expect conversation, but it was strange to be treated without a word. Though maybe the doctor was like Dr. Berl on Checkmate; everyone had said she was mute.
A door creaked open. “Pass the word for Mr. Voyjole,” he heard the doctor say.
All right, not mute. Just not talking to him. Probably under orders not to speak to a prisoner. Though it was odd how the doctor hadn’t asked for an officer.
Moments later another man spoke, his voice too muted for the words to be made out, and the heavy tread of boots made a floorboard creak. The man who approached was older than the doctor, his hair more silver than iron. Deep lines scored his forehead and ran down either side of his nose.
“I’m Franklin Voyjole, the master of this ship,” he said.
Kovir knew the protocol for interacting with pirates if taken prisoner—say nothing—but being captured by Dagrans was new. If he told this Voyjole who he was, would they reconsider harming him? He was a Denalait, after all. Surely if they did anything to him, there would be some sort of political consequences.
Such as what, exactly? He couldn’t see the Council of Eyes and Voices taking drastic measures for one person, a Seawatch operative who hadn’t even been under official orders when he’d been taken prisoner. Worse, his captors were the Dagran equivalent of pirates. If they defied their own rulers, they weren’t likely to be impressed by a foreign government, and if they were planning to kill thousands of their own people…
No, he wasn’t going to follow that line of thought. But he wasn’t going to say a word either. If they knew he was Denalait—and his accent might give it away, even if his answers didn’t—they might figure out he had a shark. Then they might try to kill his shark if she surfaced nearby. He couldn’t let her be hurt.
“Who are you and what were you doing near our ship?” Voyjole said.
Kovir dropped his gaze and noticed the longsword hanging from Voyjole’s right hip. Aside from that, Voyjole didn’t look much of a sailor—he was too well dressed, in sharply creased trousers and a dark jacket against which a chain gleamed. Kovir wished more than ever that he had some clothes on.
Voyjole’s voice hardened. “You want to start talking before Lord Richard arrives. He’s not going to be patient with you.”
Hands slapped down into Kovir’s line of sight, holding the edge of the bunk in a tight grip, and before he could control his instinctive reaction he glanced up. Voyjole all but leaned over him, brows drawn together over deep-set brown eyes.
“I know something’s wrong here.” His voice was low and intent. “And if it’s so obvious I know it, Lord Richard will do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of this. Do you understand what I’m saying? Nemesis wouldn’t just send over some…boy, and I’ve never seen a tattoo like that.”
He let go of the bunk and prodded the rebreather with the toe of one boot. “For that matter, I’ve never seen this kind of equipment either. Were you trying to fix some kind of detonation device to the hull?”
Kovir swallowed but didn’t answer.
Voyjole waited, then pulled at the chain which hung across his jacket front. A watch landed in his palm and he flipped it open. There was a soft decisive click as he closed it.
“You don’t have much time,” he said more quietly. “Lord Richard will be here at any moment.”
Kovir said nothing. If that was the case, he needed to mentally prepare himself for what would happen, and the sooner Voyjole stopped talking, the better.
Shaking his head, Voyjole dropped into a nearby chair. Taking a pipe from an inner pocket, he filled it with sharp, jerky movements that scattered tobacco flakes on the floor. He lit a spill from the lantern and a thin cloud of fragrant bluish smoke rose into the air.
Kovir closed his eyes and tried to ignore the dull pulse of pain in his arm. Rather than being uncomfortably warm, he felt chilled now, and he wondered if that was due to Voyjole’s warning or the onset of fever. Or both. He imagined slipping below the ocean’s surface, the waves closing over his head as he sank into a deep quiet place. If he could be there, far away from Princeps, he could stay calm and endure whatever happened.
He would have liked to be locked with the shark, because she was both familiar and safe—though compared to the Dagran ship, a great white would have been safe—but if his mind was fused so closely with her senses, she would feel whatever he did. Being imprisoned and…and anything else was bad enough without inflicting it on her too. He hoped she would find her way back home.
He thought about Whetstone. For years after he’d gone there for training, his parents had kept his room exactly as it had been when he’d left, but at some point they seemed to realize he wasn’t a little boy any longer. So the room had been cleaned out and Whetstone had become that much more of his home, the great underground complex with its echoing passageways and training pools. In a few months he would turn eighteen and be old enough to compete in the Tunnel Run, if he wanted to pit himself and his shark against other operatives.
He thought about sex. He’d never actually had any, which was why he thought about it. Not many people in Whetstone reached his age without any experience in the matter—or if they did, they had more sense than to make anyone else aware of it—but he had always been too self-conscious and shy with the boys he was most attracted to. And now it was too late to do anything about that.
No, he wasn’t going to remember anything else, although the backs of his eyes stung with longing. Or maybe all the smoke in the room had affected him. Yes, that was it.
A door slammed in the distance. The chair creaked as Voyjole got up, and new footsteps approached the bunk.
“My lord,” Voyjole said. Kovir opened his eyes.
The man who stood nearby watching him was better dressed than Voyjole, but Kovir had been most alert for a weapon and the man—Richard Alth, he supposed—didn’t wear even a knife. He carried a long stick of smooth wood perhaps as thick as his thumb, and his gaze flickered over Kovir before he turned to Voyjole.
“I received your message.” He smiled. “Good work. I knew I could depend on you.”
“Thank you. But…”
“What?”
“He won’t answer anything I’ve asked him.”
The smile faded. “Can he talk?”
“The doctor says so.”
“Then he’ll talk to me.” Alth turned to Kovir. “Won’t you?”
Kovir didn’t think he could have spoken if he had wanted to. His throat was dry again and his stomach in a roil.
Alth’s free hand flashed out, caught the sheet covering Kovir and whipped it off. Kovir f
linched, then set his teeth. It didn’t matter if he was naked and unable to move. He wouldn’t let them get a sound out of him.
Tossing the sheet aside, Alth moved to the foot of the bunk and swung the stick a little, like a pendulum. A leather loop around his wrist held it in place. “You can leave if you like, Voyjole,” he said without looking away from Kovir. “He won’t escape.”
“When have I ever left?”
Alth grinned. “Take a seat. This won’t last long.”
Kovir’s heart thudded wildly. He forced himself to take measured breaths, trying to slow his pulse. Stay calm and think about someth—
The stick whirred through the air and smashed into the soles of his feet.
The impact drove through his body. He gasped, but the shock was so intense he couldn’t make any other sound. Instinctively he tried to draw his feet up, get them away, but the ropes only tightened around his ankles. He couldn’t move.
“What were you trying to do to my ship?” Alth said.
Kovir closed his eyes, fingers tightening in on themselves until his nails dug into his palms.
The stick slammed home again.
After Garser had heard Jason’s plan and approved it, Lera went to the galley for more hot water, though she didn’t resent it now. Besides, Lieutenant Drale carried the bucket, so as they wound their way through passages and climbed down ladders, her mind was on what would happen that night. A tense anticipation filled her.
Drale unlocked the brig door and considerately turned his back. Lera had no intention of washing anyone who could do that for themselves—unless the person in question was a man who’d return the favor—so she put the bucket, brush and soap on the floor. The towel and clean clothes went on the bench.
“How old are you?” she said to Meghan, who was eyeing the preparations with distaste.
“Nineteen.”
I was never nineteen. She remembered a man asking her that question, and how she’d replied. She also remembered everything she’d lost because she’d lied. Fifteen, yes, and now thirty-one, but never nineteen.
The Highest Tide Page 16
