by Heidi Heilig
Spinning the mug in his hands, Mr. Hart stared at the barkeep, but I do not think he was really watching the girl. At last he spoke. “If I hadn’t seen the things I’ve seen on this journey, I’d question her sanity. Now I find myself questioning my own. The things Miss Song said, about the wolf. And the dead man. They seemed familiar, but like a dream does.”
I gave him a half smile. “But you do remember her falling.”
“Into a tunnel underground. Yes.” He spoke slowly, as though he had to draw every word from the well of his memory. “We were passing time exploring the warehouse. . . . The floor fell away, and I threw down a rope to help her back up.” He tapped his fingers on the pewter, making a dull ringing. “What do you remember from this morning?”
“Before the parade?” I downed a mouthful of cider. “Stealing our coin back from the harbormaster.”
To Mr. Hart’s credit, he laughed. “I should have expected something like that. But . . . was there anything else? Something you didn’t do but somehow remember anyway?”
I held the clove between my back teeth, considering. “I . . . I dreamed last night about climbing over the abbey wall. It runs beside the castle, and I wanted to take a look inside—maybe find the treasury. I spent some time here listening, talking to the drunks. Apparently the king’s treasure is kept in a pit below the castle.”
He frowned. “A pit?”
“So they say. An ingenious design, so that if the walls were breached in war, the treasury would flood to hide the gold. I dreamed I went looking for it. But in my dream, the castle was empty. . . .” I glanced down at my palms; the calluses made bumps and ridges. That scrape there—had I actually roped down into the bailey and explored the grounds, rather than only dreaming I had?
Mr. Hart leaned closer. “Did your dream include frightening us in the gatehouse?”
With a crack like a wishbone, the clove broke between my teeth. I spat the pieces to the floor. “It did,” I said, though he’d already seen the answer on my face.
Chewing his lip, he thrust his hand into his breast pocket, drawing out the sketchbook I’d given him. “You mentioned a pit,” he murmured, paging through. Then he stopped, whistling low under his breath. “Look here.”
I took the book and traced the drawing with one fingers. “A map?”
“Of the underground tunnels. See this?” He gestured at a colorful slip of paper tucked between the pages. “I dreamed we found it in the square—or I thought I dreamed it. But here it is. And it shows le trou, a pit. That’s what we were searching for in my dream—or my memory. Miss Song thought there was a man trapped there.” He sat back in his chair. “Tell me, in your travels aboard the Temptation, have you ever seen this happen?”
“Not that I know.” Still studying the pages, I pulled another clove from my pocket. “Then again, I’ve always been on the ship when she’s Navigated.”
“Except once.”
I shut the book and met his gaze head-on. “Yes.”
Steepling his hands, he put his elbows on the table. “Do you have any . . . old memories from that time? Odd ones, that seem like dreams?”
The question was as pointed as a knife, and nearly as threatening, so I laughed. “I’ve only had half a cider, Mr. Hart. Far too little to tell you about my dreams.”
He smiled, though his eyes were grim. “So you do have them, then.”
Glancing at the fire, I watched it dance and crackle. Above, heat shimmered in the air, almost, but not quite, invisible. “I do.”
“So do I.”
I let the silence stretch—as did he. Farther down the table, a group of men broke into a ribald song; I waited till the end of the first chorus, but neither of us budged an inch. Finally I stood, sliding the sketchbook back across the table. “You’re a hard lock to pick, Mr. Hart.”
I drained my mug and held out my hand. He finished his too, and passed it over. Back to the bar, then. I smoothed my vest and prepared my best smile for the girl; my reward was a little blush on her pale cheeks, though she looked upset about it. “Have you got anything stronger?” I pushed an extra coin across the bar. “Mulled wine? Genièvre?”
She nodded, topping off the cider with a splash of what smelled like whiskey. As I waited, I pretended not to listen as one fisherman told another about the yacht. “It moves like nothing you’ve ever seen,” he said. “Flies over the water.”
“It’s an enchantment,” his companion hissed back. “They say the princess is a witch. She writes spells on her palms.”
The words were like needles, pricking at my skin, but I let nothing show on my face as I picked up the mugs. Accusations like that were dangerous, not only for the accused, but for those who showed them sympathy.
Setting the cider down on our table, I slid back into my seat. Then I lifted my own drink and trotted out my native accent, just for fun—or maybe to spite the men at the bar. “Salamati.”
“Hipahipa,” Mr. Hart replied in Hawaiian, taking a deep draft and making a face.
I did the same; it had been whiskey, after all. For a moment, it burned like a coal under my ribs before settling into a pleasant warmth behind my navel. I rolled the clove over my tongue. “If . . . if these dreams are . . . are more like a memories . . . if we share them—does that make them real?”
Mr. Hart glanced at the cup. “What’s in the drink, Mr. Firas?”
I laughed a little. “I mean to say, does this mean they happened? Somehow? Somewhere?”
“Miss Song mentioned alternate universes.” He sighed, wistful. “Imagine if we could go back and forth between them, picking the best outcome each time.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The best outcome for who?”
“Good point.” He smiled wryly and saluted me with his cup. Outside, the light was fading. Near the hearth, a woman lit a rush and carried it to the lamps hanging on the wall, stopping briefly at each, like a pickpocket in a crowd. Mr. Hart sighed, rubbing his chin. “It is strange,” he said. “How quickly fortune changes.”
“How so?”
“Well!” He laughed, surprised. “Two weeks ago, I never would have imagined myself visiting a mythical city. Or commiserating with a confessed criminal.”
“Is it so strange we find ourselves allies? After all, you’re a confessed gentleman.”
“What’s wrong with being a gentleman?”
“In Hawaii? I’ve stolen much, Mr. Hart, but never an island.” At my words, his smile faded and fell away; a pang hit me. Was it guilt? I sighed. “But neither of us had a choice in our parents.”
“Were you raised a thief?”
“For the brief time I was raised, yes.” I smiled into my cup. “But even beyond that, you and I have much in common.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“We both crew the same ship. We both left our homelands behind.” I hesitated, but I couldn’t resist. “We both dream of the same girl.”
Mr. Hart snorted. “You were right, I’m not half drunk enough.” He tipped his mug back and then wiped foam from his lips. Then he leaned forward over the table. “Something’s changed since Hawaii. The two of you used to be as thick as thieves. Pardon the expression.”
“Ah ah ah.” I wagged my finger. “There’s not enough beer in the world that I’ll tell you what’s between her and me.”
“Fair enough,” he said gamely. “Your other dreams, then.”
I winked at him. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
His expression was wry. “I suppose that means I go first?”
“Bon courage, Mr. Hart.” I lifted my cup.
Mr. Hart took another thoughtful sip. “That first day I came to the ship, I dreamed—or I think I dreamed—that I had stayed in Hawaii instead. Not so unexpected, really. And it might only be wishful thinking. But it was a strange dream. Vivid. And a week later, I can’t shake it. What about you?”
I watched his right hand clench and loosen on the handle of the mug. There was something he was not telling me. N
o surprise there. But what to tell him, exactly? The words were hard to summon; odd, when the dream was so clear in my head. Draining my cup, I set it down firmly. “The night I came aboard, I dreamed I died instead.”
Surprise flickered across his face, like the shadow of a sparrow flying by above. “How?”
My hand crept to my neck—thankfully, it still held my head to my shoulders. I shuddered; I couldn’t stop it from happening. “Execution,” I said at last.
The muscles in his throat jerked. He was nervous, but his voice was steady. Still, he toyed with the mug. “With a gun?”
“A sword.” I could still feel it now, as soft as a whisper, as cold as the crescent moon. “Why do you ask?”
Mr. Hart’s answer was a long time coming. “In my dream, I . . . I killed someone, back in that cave above Nu‘uanu Valley.”
I ran my tongue over my teeth; the cider had left a sour aftertaste. “Your father?”
“No.” He stared at me, a lost look in his eyes. “It was you.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Alone in Kashmir’s bed, I slept too lightly to dream him there. My mind was still spinning; I tossed and turned as well. After a fitful hour, I gave up and opened my eyes. Before me was a poem; the page had been torn from a book and pinned to the wall with a silver tack. The edge of the paper fluttered with each breath. My eyes focused on the words . . . one of Rumi’s about love and insanity.
The words stirred something in my chest as the events of the morning came back to me. The swirl of petals, the dead man gutted, the cheering crowd, the stench of the wolf. If I hadn’t read Crowhurst’s letter, if I hadn’t known what to expect, I might think I was going mad. Or at least misremembering. After all, I had hit my head. I could still feel the bump—and the Mayo Clinic had listed head trauma as a factor in memory problems. Depression too. And of course that was heritable.
No. No. I would not end up like my father—I would not lose Kashmir. Not if Crowhurst could help me avoid it.
I twisted around in the silk cushions, trying to get comfortable, but the pistol jabbed my hip. I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled it out, running my fingers over the scrollwork. The silver barrel gleamed in the low light. How could Blake have forgotten shooting the wolf? I frowned, struggling to open the chamber to check. It took me a few tries—I had never studied guns—but no, the bullets were gone.
Then again . . . we’d fired both before coming aboard in Hawaii.
And how would Slate have gotten bullets for a derringer? In modern New York, the gun would have been an antique, the bullets custom.
For one very odd moment, the world seemed to twist in around me, like the tentacles of a sea monster. Was I actually going insane, or had the captain reloaded the gun?
Scattering the pillows, I hauled myself to my feet, holding on to the doorframe as a sudden dizzy feeling ebbed. Then I shoved the gun back into my cloak and made my way upstairs.
The captain was still curled in his little alcove; I whispered his name, but he did not stir. On the floor beside the bed, I saw a congealing stack of untouched pancakes—Rotgut’s doing, certainly. I sighed, running my hand through the tangles of my hair. Had my father woken yet today? I had to remind myself that it wasn’t unusual, during the dark times, for him to skip meals and spend many hours in his bed—and it was better than him wandering the city and climbing the walls.
Quietly I searched the cabin, checking his sea chest, the desk, and finally the cupboard beneath it: there it was at the bottom, a leather case stamped with Blake’s initials. Inside, four bullets nestled in sleeves made for six.
I felt relieved—and silly, very silly—but why shouldn’t I have doubted? What Crowhurst had done was incredible. Unbelievable. What a power to have, so vast . . . and so dangerous. When the evidence of your eyes contravenes the memories in your head, where can you put your trust?
Kash was right to warn me. Standing there with the leather case in my hand, I reloaded the gun.
From belowdecks, Billie started barking; automatically, I glanced to the captain, but his eyes stayed closed and his breathing did not change. A small, lost part of me wished he would wake. I wanted someone to talk to about Crowhurst, about Ker-Ys . . . about the past, and the future too. I wanted my father. I wanted his guidance. But I couldn’t have it, even if he’d been awake. He would ask his own questions, and I had no answers for him. Besides, he wouldn’t have the answers I needed, either. He never had.
Did Crowhurst? How had he done it? How had he changed the memories of the town—the very fabric of reality—to crown himself king? And out of all the possible things he might have done, why had he chosen this?
A soft knock at the cabin door interrupted my thoughts. Had Kashmir missed me downstairs? I stuffed the gun back into my pocket as I went to the door, but it wasn’t him.
“Dahut!” I blinked at her in the low light. Dusk had settled across the harbor the way ash drifts down from a fire, soft and reverent, but the light from the ship’s lanterns gleamed on the gold circlet in her hair, and the guarded, empty look in her eyes.
“You—you must be Nix.”
“Yes.” I faltered, suddenly off-balance; my heart sank.
“Yes,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. “I have something for you.”
“Do you? Oh.” In her hands, a folded piece of paper. I recognized it immediately—my father’s map of Honolulu. I took it from her, inspecting it briefly, but it was whole and undamaged. My mouth twisted, wry. “How fitting.”
She watched me, suspicious. Her skirts whispered around her ankles as she shifted her weight. “We’ve met before.”
The way she said it, I knew it was a question. “In New York.”
“I’m sorry.” Dahut curled her fingers into fists. “I have a problem with my memory.”
“You told me.” A sudden realization: perhaps her condition wouldn’t have been listed in a medical dictionary. “You’re not a Navigator.”
“A what?”
“A Navigator. Someone who can use maps to travel through history? Through myths?”
“Am I? No. My father is.”
“The king.”
“Yes.” She said it like it should be obvious—this, from the same girl who told me not three days ago that there was no king in Ker-Ys. My frustration was rising like steam through a stack . . . but it wasn’t her fault. I tapped the map against my open palm. It seemed that whatever Crowhurst had done, it affected everyone around him, no matter if they were on his ship or no.
Or was that how Navigation always worked? Had Slate and I been imposing changes on the crew from place to place and era to era without even knowing it was happening? In the pit of my stomach, a whirlpool. Kashmir’s words came back to me. Some things should not be stolen. Had I ever seen such a blank look in his eyes?
No . . . there was a difference between Dahut’s missing memories and the way Blake and Kash remembered a whole new reality. But why? If Navigation caused memories to change, what could cause memories to vanish?
“Is something the matter?”
I took a breath, trying to compose myself. “You forget things often?”
“Usually I write things down in my diary so I don’t forget. But sometimes . . .” Dahut’s eyes flashed with sudden rage. “Sometimes my records are incomplete.”
I blinked at her, but as quickly as the storm came, it had passed; had it only been a trick of the fading light? I took hold of the pearl at my throat, rubbing its smooth surface between my fingers. What could I say? How to begin? “What’s the first thing you remember?”
“Coming into the harbor this morning.”
I stared at her, shocked. “That’s your first memory?” The thought of it took my breath away—automatically, my own mind riffled through the treasures of my past. My father teaching me to Navigate . . . a theft-day feast in Malta . . . kissing Kashmir on the beach. Now I knew why the idea of forgetting bothered him so much. “Ever?”
Dahut bit her lip; her eyes were f
araway. “Before that? It’s hazy, but . . .asking for help. Asking someone to help me.”
I frowned. “You asked for my help in New York.”
“Did I?”
“Come.”
Tucking the Honolulu map into my pocket, I ushered her inside the cabin. Her dark eyes roamed the room, widening when she saw my father, sprawled on his bunk. “Is he all right?” she whispered.
I glanced at Slate. Was it so obvious? “He’s fine,” I lied.
“My own father barely sleeps.”
Ignoring her naked curiosity, I went to the desk, pushing aside the coffee cups and picking up the map of Ker-Ys. “Do you remember this?”
She studied the map. “This is my handwriting.”
“Is it?” A thin current of admiration trickled into my voice. “It’s beautiful work.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
I tilted my head. “How do you know that? I mean, how do you remember?”
“I wrote it down in my diary. It’s one of my father’s rules. He has me make a map every morning, for his records. He has a whole stack in his cabin.”
“His records? To help him remember where you’ve been, or . . .” I furrowed my brow, but then I realized. “Or so you can return to a place if you Navigate away. God, that’s clever.” We’d done that once, in Hawaii with Blake. Why hadn’t I thought of asking him to make maps wherever we went?
“My father is very clever,” Dahut said then, but it didn’t sound like a compliment. I bit my lip.
“How did . . . is Crowhurst . . .” I faltered, considering the question I had been about to ask: is he your real father? After all, as I’d mentioned to Kashmir, Crowhurst had a daughter on his timeline, but her name wasn’t Dahut. But Slate and I did not immediately look alike, and I’d always hated how people looked at us, as though cataloging our differences. Maybe Crowhurst had had a second family—or maybe he’d adopted her. Either way, would she remember? And what did it mean, anyway? Real. I let the question die unasked. “I’d like to talk to him, actually.”
