by K. Ferrin
She sprinted toward the Scarlet Float, hoping no one would notice in the turmoil caused by Hanner and Laera. She leapt from the side of the dock.
“Don’t let that boat leave!” Hanner’s voice carried over the din of the crowd, but the Scarlet Float was drifting faster now.
Ling reached out and scrambled frantically as her hands just caught the side rail of the boat. Brown hands reached down and yanked her up over the rail.
“Get below. You’ve got twenty seconds before they come back.”
It was the curly haired man she’d seen minutes before. She stared at him in shock. She was absolutely certain she didn’t know him. The real question, though, was could she trust him.
She realized the question was moot. Hanner’s boots pounded as he ran down the dock, tendons straining out from his neck as he shouted. The Scarlet Float didn’t pause—couldn’t pause, now that it was caught in the main current of the river.
“Go!” the man said.
She stared at Hanner, and he stared right back. Laera came up beside him as Ling watched. She quivered in fear, wondering if the source was Laera and Hanner, the fact she had snuck aboard a riverboat, or because she fled alone through the night toward a future she could hardly imagine.
She moved to the hold and lowered herself down quickly, her heart racing and her entire body shaking in fear. She ducked into the twilight of the boat’s belly, hurrying to the far end. She listened carefully. If another boatsmyn came below deck with a final task and caught her, it would all end here. But a moment later, the door to the hold slid shut, and she heard nothing but the slap of water on wood as the Scarlet Float drifted out of Meuse and into the thick swampland of Brielle.
In the dim light let in by the few dirty portholes, she scurried up onto the crates piled high along the furthest back section of the hold and settled into a crack between two of the largest. It was tight and cramped. She didn’t relish the idea of lingering in such a tight space for a fortnight, but she was completely hidden here. Even with the boat listing as it was, the crew would never shift their cargo once underway. If she stuck it out, she’d make it to Middelhaern undetected.
Except for the first mate. That had to be who the man was to have been obeyed so readily by the other boatsmyn. Did he know who she was? The slight widening of his eyes when he’d seen her made her think so. But then why help her? No one who knew who she was—what she was—would help her.
Would he keep her secret or sell her out to the captain? And if he did keep her secret, what payment would he expect in return? The thought made her shudder.
She curled into her nook, pulled the grimoire out of its bag, and began to write. She had no idea how long she could stay awake. No idea if she slept like a human normally would, or if she went into some bizarre trance. But before it happened, she had to write everything down. All of it. When she woke up in the morning, she would know nothing of where she was or why she was there. The book was the only connection she had to who she was and what she had to do.
CHAPTER SIX
For days, Ling had huddled in her tiny crack between poorly stacked crates of merchandise. Each morning—or she assumed it was morning by the dim light that filtered through the filthy windows—she woke confused and not a little fearful to find herself in the cargo hold of a boat. After reading the grimoire, the fear only grew. Each day she was increasingly certain the mate who’d allowed her on board had recognized her, and she waited for him to sneak down to demand some sort of payment in return.
But one day followed the next, and she saw nothing other than a handful of mice. No one came down to check the cargo. The mate never set foot in the hold, either, and slowly her terror of him waned. Whoever he was, he clearly meant her no harm.
She huddled in the narrow opening for twelve days, book clutched tightly to her chest. She swung between terror at the idea of being cast out from her home and traveling alone to Dreggs, grief for what might have become of Witch, and grief for her own life. Both Evelyn’s and her own. She had all of Evelyn’s dreams inside her head. It was a terrible paradox to know that the human version would probably never see those dreams come true, while Ling—who had all Evelyn’s thoughts and feelings—probably would.
She imagined how she would feel if she were the human, if she were somehow aware that some magical trespasser had managed to steal her life away. The self-hatred and confusion that came out of these sessions were unbearable.
So she shifted instead to imagining how her meeting with Grag would go. She preferred to picture him as a kindly old man who’d long repented his rash and hasty curse, who was deeply grateful for a chance at redemption, and who was only too happy to unmake Ling and awaken Evelyn.
She wondered what she would do if he were instead an angry, bitter man who laughed as she begged. What would she do then? Would she have the courage and the strength to kill him? To torture him until he gave in and did the magic to unmake her?
She laughed at herself at the thought of it. She may be magic, but she couldn’t do anything magical. She had no hope of forcing Grag into anything. If he refused, there would be no end to this curse. She would live forever knowing she had stolen the life of another.
She didn’t know for sure what sort of magic warlocks could do. The Bremen were farmers, and their magic was rooted in the land around them. The Vosh could find minerals and stone deep within the ground, and the Brisians could speak with animals, but Witch had said the magic of warlocks was different. The others used magic the way living things used air, but the warlocks controlled it, dominated it. What did that mean? If a Bremen could coax a plant to take root and bloom even in rocky soil, could a warlock create a plant from out of thin air? Did male and female warlocks do different sorts of magic?
She realized how little she really knew about magic and how it worked. The people of Brielle didn’t discuss it. In almost every way, they simply acted as if magic did not exist anywhere in the world. All she knew about magic had been gleaned from the stories she’d heard from boatsmyn or tales whispered in the Shadow Market of Middelhaern.
Boatsmyn spoke of warlocks who could control a person’s mind and body, reanimate corpses, and even open up the earth at your feet. They told terrifying stories of dragons, birds with human faces, and other bizarre creatures that only looked sort of human, creatures that had haunted her dreams as a young child.
Everyone had a different opinion about what magic could do, but every adult in Meuse had agreed that magic was bad. Evil. All magic was black magic to the people of Brielle, and it was not to be trusted.
But she wondered at the truth of this. She’d been sneaking her way into the Shadow Market for years and had seen all sorts of magical objects. Harmless, all. Besides, everyone else in the world had and used magic. As much as people tried to ignore it, everyone knew this to be true. Were all of the other people in this world evil? She found this impossible to believe.
The days had passed with agonizing slowness, but finally, if the dates in the grimoire were correct, the last night of the trip had arrived. They would reach Middelhaern late tomorrow, and she had to be out of the hold and off the ship before they docked or she’d be discovered for sure.
She’d sailed this route with her father a hundred times. The land around Middelhaern was as boggy as it was around Meuse, but the river from here on out was deep and slow moving. She could float the remainder of the way unseen and unheard if she stuck to traveling at night.
Her biggest fear was that Laera had sent ships after her to bring her back. She would not be free until she was out of Brielle. Middelhaern itself was a big enough city that she could lose herself in it. Twenty riverboats could dock in Meuse, but in Middelhaern, a hundred ships could fit with ease. But she had to ensure no one saw her on the Scarlet Float or floating up to the docks on her own.
This morning she’d awoken early, the ship around her cloaked in silence. She’d read the book and sobbed, rubbing her hands along her face, desperately searching for tears
. There were none. She calmed eventually, listening to the soft slapping of water against hull. The ship was still silent when she crept out of the tiny crack she’d lived in for almost a fortnight according to the book. She moved slow and silent, afraid even to breathe. If the words in the book, the grimoire, were true, she also hadn’t used the toilet or eaten since Witch’s provisions had run out days ago—further proof she wasn’t human.
Even though she didn’t remember the preceding days, she was sick of hiding in this tiny hole. She was certain everyone above would still be fast asleep. She deserved a good stretch before she made her exit.
Lighting a tiny stub of a candle, she set it on a crate next to her pack and the bag with the grimoire. She stretched in the dim light, reaching her hands up toward the roof above her and then extending them behind her. She may not have the usual guts of a human, but stretching after being cramped for so long still felt amazing.
She twisted from side to side marveling at the detail Grag had managed to capture when he’d created her. She needed no food, no water, and never had to relieve herself, but she felt hungry, felt thirsty, and felt her tight and constricted muscles. She was made of magic, but she felt mortal.
She paced quietly, walking from one end of the hold to the other several times. She paused, facing a stack of crating, and let her upper body fall forward, scraping the tips of her fingers along the decking beneath her feet. She hung there, feeling the stretch along the length of her back and down the backs of her thighs.
Hands slid along her hips and something warm pressed against her backside. She snapped upright in surprise and pulled away. The hands at her hips hardened and held her there.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
The man’s breath was warm against her ear, and she could smell the sweet scent of brandy on him. He rubbed his hips against hers so intimately she could feel him hardening against her.
Indignant fury flooded through her at the unwelcome touch, but it was tinged with fear.
“Take your hands off me!” She tried to put command in her voice while still keeping it low. She could perhaps bribe his silence, but if the others heard, that would be impossible. She jerked forward, trying to break his grasp on her.
“You ain’t s’posed to be here, little lady,” he slurred. “Little stowaway, you are.” He gave an odd, high-pitched giggle. “My little stowaway. No one need’s ta be the wiser for it, li’l miss. You help me, I help you.”
He ground his hips against her again, and there was no mistaking his excitement. He pushed her against the crates, pinning her. One hand held her while the other fumbled at her pants, pushing them down around her hips. He’d somehow managed to free himself from his pants, and she could feel his bared flesh pressing against her own.
“I am not willing!” she said, heart racing. “You rape me, you’ll never sail again!”
“Rape...pfft.” Rank breath washed over her as he sighed into her face. “Ain’t no rape. Just a stowaway trading her body for passage.”
“I have coin! I have a lot of it!” Her heart hammered in her chest as her mind raced.
He pulled back and studied her, his eyes so unfocused she wondered if he could really see her at all. Taking a person against their will was one of the worst crimes in Brielle. He’d never sail again—would never see the clear light of day again—but he was too brandy-soaked to realize such things.
Unfortunately for her, the punishment for stowing away on a riverboat could be just as severe. She’d seen folk hanged for it back in Meuse. It all depended on the captain. On board a ship, the captain’s word was law. She had to keep this between the two of them alone.
“You got somethin’ I want more than coin.”
She had a decision to make. She could allow this man to have his way with her, hoping he’d then let her sneak up on deck and leap overboard, or she could face the captain as a stowaway.
He prodded her with his hips, lifting her against the crates as he sought his prize. A thick haze of sour brandy wafted over her with his every breath, complimented by the sharp smell of unwashed body. His hands were rough and hard, unforgiving.
She clenching her eyes tight, willing herself to just let it happen, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bear his touch, couldn’t allow him to touch her this way. Rage boiled up inside of her, and she shouted out in anger, shoving against the crates in front of her as hard as she could.
Her body rocketed back against the man, and he swore as he tripped over his lowered trousers and fell to the floor. Ling leapt away from him, trying to yank her pants back up, but he moved impossibly fast for being so drunk. He grabbed at her leg. He missed, but his fingers slid inside one of her boots. He yanked, pulling her leg out from beneath her and the boot entirely off. Unbalanced, she crashed to the decking, and he was on top of her in a flash. He punched her in the face, smashing her head back against the hull, and snugged himself between her legs before she could take a breath to scream.
Stars exploded in her eyes as he punched her again, and this time she felt a sickening crunch as her nose broke beneath the impact. She screamed, careless now of what it would mean should she be discovered. She got one hand free and gouged at the man’s eyes as he pressed himself into her. The feel of him penetrating her filled her with sick hatred.
The next scream was his as her thumb pressed into a tender eye socket, and the man scooted back away from her. She followed him back, keeping the pressure on his eye, managing to straddle his hips as she pressed her thumb harder into his eye socket.
“Feckin’ betch!” He heaved, bucking his hips beneath her. She lost her grip on his head, and he snatched at her hands, clasping both of them in one of his and grinning up at her, his straight white teeth an oddity in his filthy face.
“Li’l miss likes it on top!”
She tried to get her hands around his neck, but he easily kept them at bay while he wiggled himself into position below her. She screamed again in outrage as he entered her for the second time.
A shadow loomed over her and a large hand clamped onto her arm, yanking her backwards off her attacker and flinging her against the wall of the hold.
“Fraser, what in the infernals are you doing, you damned fool!” The voice thundered in the closed space.
Her attacker scrambled back away from the towering figure. “She’s stowaway! She ain’t got no rights!”
“You know the punishment for rape no matter where she is! You’ll lose your mark and never sail a riverboat again!”
“Betch was willin’, Dreskin. Wern’t no rape! She offered it in exchange for her secret. Ask her!” Fraser glared at her, the threat unmistakable.
She was sprawled on the floor of the deck, bared from the waist down, and missing one boot, but she glared back at Fraser with what little dignity she had. Glancing at Dreskin, she realized he was the one who’d helped her sneak on board. Dreskin, for his part, didn’t look her way.
“I heard the fight, Fraser. Everyone on board heard it, you idiot! On your feet, boatsmyn. The captain’ll deal with you.”
“Dreskin, come on. Our little secret! I’ll give ya my wages for the next three floats—”
“Like I said, everyone on the ship heard your little tryst. Too late for dealing, Fraser. Up to the captain’s quarters. Now.”
Fraser glared at Dreskin and Ling as if wondering whether he could take them both. Courage clearly not being one of his assets, he fled the hold, presumably to stand at the captain’s quarters to await his fate. For her part, Ling hoped he leapt off the side of the boat and drowned in the murky depths of the river.
Dreskin turned, finally, and looked Ling up and down. He’d helped her and had kept his distance since then, but the fear of Fraser’s attempt to force her was fresh in her mind, and she wasn’t inclined to trust anyone at the moment. She scrambled to her feet and backed away, snatching up her trousers and pulling them on hastily. She couldn’t find her boot.
She snatched up the bag holding he
r grimoire and the pack Witch had given her from where they sat next to the guttering candle. She was shaking so hard she could hardly keep her feet beneath her. Her face was in agony, though no blood dripped from her nose. She wondered if there was any indication of the violence Fraser had done her, or if it had all vanished seconds after it had been done.
“I’m sorry.”
Ling didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing.
“I tried to keep them out of the hold,” he said quietly. “Damned fool!” He gestured violently to where Fraser had vanished up onto the deck. “I’ll do what I can, but I’ve got no choice but to bring you to the captain.”
“Please, just set me off at the next stop, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Look, I mean to help you. This changes none of that. We’ll tell him you’re a trader, running away from your pa.”
“Please—if he finds out…”
“He won’t find out. Not if you play it well. Trust me?”
Ling shivered in fear. If she were lucky, she’d get off with being flogged. If she were unlucky, it would be much, much worse. If they discovered who she was, it would be even worse still. She didn’t see a way around it, though. She had no choice but to follow the first mate’s orders. She didn’t trust him, but it was better to go along with him now in the hopes she could leap from the boat once up on deck. She snuffed the candle, tossing it into the pack with the grimoire.
She emerged from the belly of the ship into the light of a dozen lanterns. A handful of unwashed faces craned their necks to see who’d had the nerve to sneak aboard their boat. A few sniggered when they saw her slight form emerge from the darkness, clothes askew and one boot missing. More than a few showed an interest that made her shudder.
The air was cool, refreshing after spending so long cramped in the hold. A few raindrops splattered against her as she moved out into the open, and a low rumble rolled across the sky.
She moved slowly toward the rail. If she could leap over, no one would dare follow her. But before she’d gone two steps, Dreskin wrapped a hand around her upper arm. She jumped at the contact and tried to pull away, but he held fast.
