Gods know I saw enough Kalovaxian courtiers trample over one another in order to save their reputations and pride—I can only imagine how they would act if their lives were at stake. But even as I think that, I remember being in that tunnel with Søren and holding my dagger to his back. I remember him telling me to do it.
“I assume Søren is secure in the brig?” I ask Spiros.
Spiros frowns. “He has his guards to keep him there.”
“Just like I have you?”
He gives a snort. “His aren’t nearly as friendly as I am.”
“And after the Kalovaxians surrender?” I ask. “What’s next?”
Spiros leans back against the door opposite me, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’ll pull up alongside them and secure our ship to theirs. I don’t have to tell you that Kalovaxians are crafty—they’ll have men lying in wait, hoping to surprise us when we board. I suppose they think it’s a clever ploy, but they all do it. We send our strongest on first, ready for a fight, and what resistance they have is taken out quickly. Usually that’s my job.”
“Sounds like a dangerous one,” I say. “Especially since Artemisia beat you so handily when you dueled.”
Spiros smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck. “Dueling is different from battle—Art knows that, too. There’s no grace to battle, no need for style. You only need to move faster and hit harder than your opponents. Dueling is more like a dance—you respect your partner, you understand them. It’s as much a chess match as a physical sport. That’s the part I’ve gotten rusty with.”
“And then?” I prompt.
He shrugs. “Then the rest of the crew boards. We take what we need—money, clothes, valuables. The captain tries to pry some information from them, but even with her knife at their throats, they still fear the Kaiser more. They rarely say a useful word, and when they do, it usually proves false.”
“So she kills them,” I finish. It’s hardly sportsmanlike, but neither is conquering defenseless countries.
“It’ll all be over before much longer,” Spiros says.
I nod, but I’m hardly listening to him. A wisp of an idea is taking shape in my mind, slowly becoming corporeal. It will mean acting quickly, and it will mean going against Dragonsbane’s orders, but I only let myself hesitate for a few seconds before giving Spiros my most charming smile.
“I’d imagine it’s difficult for you, Spiros, being stuck down here with me while all the action is happening.”
Spiros frowns, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t mind,” he says, but his eyes give away the lie.
“At least you’re much safer down here,” I say.
Instead of placating him, my words only agitate him further, and he pushes off from the door, beginning to pace.
“It’ll be over soon,” he says again.
I pretend to consider it for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be something,” I say slowly, “if the last thing those Kalovaxian men saw before they died was me?”
Spiros is quiet for a moment. “Dragonsbane gave specific orders that you were to stay in your cabin,” he says.
“Of course,” I say. “My aunt wants to keep me safe, I understand that. But I won’t be in any danger after we’ve boarded them. You said so yourself.”
He hesitates, and I can see my words getting to him—not to mention his own desire to be a part of the action—but it isn’t enough. His loyalty to Dragonsbane is unwavering. I try another tactic, making my voice small.
“Art told me that when she kills Kalovaxians, she takes back a little of what they took from her,” I tell him. His wince is slight, but it’s there. I continue. “I would like to take something back from them as well, Spiros. Please.”
“If I did let you,” he says slowly, “you wouldn’t do anything foolish? Art says you’re prone to foolishness.”
I can’t help but laugh, knowing that Artemisia would call what I’m about to do the height of foolishness. “I promise I won’t,” I tell him. “But we’ll also need to bring Prinz Søren with us.”
He’s alarmed at the idea. “The Prinz is a prisoner, a Kalovaxian prisoner,” he says. “Why would we bring him to interrogate other Kalovaxians?”
I smile. “Because those men respect Søren as much as you respect Dragonsbane. And he will be on our side.”
“You can’t guarantee that,” Spiros says, shaking his head. “He’s an enemy. Dragonsbane will get information from the Kalovaxians, just as she always does.”
“Good information?” I ask, and he hesitates. “You said very little of it ever actually checks out. Because they’re talking to an enemy, not someone they believe to be an ally. Like Søren. He’s weakened and unarmed, easy for his guards to handle even without chains.”
“I won’t go against my captain’s orders,” Spiros says quietly, but that isn’t a no.
“You aren’t,” I tell him. “You’re following your queen’s. You’re going to go fetch Heron. He isn’t one for violence, so you’ll find him in his cabin. Once you have him, you’re going to meet me in the brig.”
BY THE TIME THE CHEERS erupt from the deck—which Spiros says means we’ve officially taken control of the other ship—I have Heron on one side and Søren and his guards on my other. We didn’t have time for Heron to heal all of Søren’s injuries, but the cosmetic ones have been taken care of, at least. The only outward sign that he is anything other than a guest on board is a limp he hides so well I wouldn’t notice if I weren’t looking for it. My dagger is sheathed at my hip, though it looks a bit silly strapped over my gray nightgown. It took some convincing for the guards to let Søren out without chains, but my weight as queen helped push them. It isn’t a card I’ll be able to play forever, the Kaiser taught me that. A title is all well and good, but it doesn’t guarantee respect. Actions do.
“Would you like to fill me in on whatever you’re planning?” Søren whispers to me as we walk up the stairs, Spiros, Heron, and the guards trailing a few steps behind.
I hesitate for only a second. “When Dragonsbane orders the Kalovaxians killed, you can’t say a word about it.”
Though the lighting belowdecks is dim, I can see Søren go a shade paler. “Theo…,” he says. “I understand that this is war, but don’t ask me to watch it.”
“You need to prove that you’re on our side unequivocally if we’re going to get you out of the brig.” I glance behind us at the guards before turning back to Søren and lowering my voice. “Please. Yana Crebesti.”
His eyes meet mine for just an instant before he drops his gaze and nods.
I take a deep, steadying breath before pushing open the door and stepping out onto the deck of the Smoke. It’s surprising the ship hasn’t tipped over, given how many people are gathered against the port side railing, peering over to where I can just make out the mast and collapsed red sails of the Kalovaxian ship.
Søren struggles to see past the crowd—easier for him than me. After a moment, he lets out a curse under his breath.
“What is it?” I ask.
“The ship. It’s the Dragon’s Pride.”
The name means nothing to me, but Søren is rattled.
“I trained on the Pride,” he explains. “So I could understand trade routes.”
“You’ll know some of the men,” I realize.
He nods, but doesn’t say more, his expression tense.
“That means that they’ll know you,” I point out. “It’ll be easier for you to get them to talk.”
And harder for you to watch them die.
Spiros and the other guards move in front of us, clearing a path to the gangway—a thick wooden plank leading from our ship to theirs. The sight of it makes my stomach clench and I imagine all the ways I could topple off it. Spiros crosses first, the plank rattling beneath his feet with each step he takes, though he hardly seems to notic
e it. He’s done this before, of course. So has Søren—I’m the only one new at this.
“If it helps,” Søren murmurs to me, “I’ve never seen anyone fall off a gangway unless someone pushed them.”
“Thank you,” I reply dryly, before taking my first step onto the rickety plank.
I’ve done harder things than this, I remind myself as I place one foot in front of the other. I remember escaping the palace, swimming against that icy current and climbing those jagged rocks, my palms and soles bleeding by the time I was through. I try not to think about the board shaking beneath me or how far of a drop it is if I fall, straight into churning dark water. I keep my mind empty until my feet find the solid ground of the Kalovaxian ship. My shaking hand finds Spiros’s and he helps me step down.
But as soon as my mind clears, I almost yearn for the quivering plank again, because suddenly I’m faced with dozens of Astreans and Kalovaxians, staring at me and Søren, bewildered, alarmed, and expectant. None of them speaks, though. Instead, they glance between us and Dragonsbane, waiting to follow her lead. I find Blaise and Artemisia in the crowd, both staring at me with their mouths gaping open. Most of the crew are armed, their knives aimed at the pale throats of the Kalovaxians kneeling before them. I don’t have time to count them all, but I’d guess fifty Kalovaxians, many wounded, and a handful more Astreans. For once, we outnumber them.
“Theodosia.” Dragonsbane’s voice cuts through my thoughts. Her voice is a warning with an undercurrent of confusion, but it does not match the fury in her eyes. But that is a good thing—it means that angry as she might be to see Søren out of the brig, she is trying to hide it. To show her emotions would be to lose face in front of her crew and the Kalovaxians, and she can’t have that. I can almost see her mind working: Søren is out of the brig, yes, but there are enough armed crew members around him that he’s still effectively powerless. She has more to gain by letting this play out than by confronting me and setting us in opposition to each other. She knows that if it came to it, some of her crew would follow a queen over a captain—not many, not enough to put up a real rebellion, but still too many by her standards.
So she plays along. She stands on the raised bow of the ship, Eriel behind her. On his knees in front of her is an older, broad-shouldered Kalovaxian man who I assume to be the captain. If the length of his hair is any indication, it has been many years since he lost a battle. Now that he has, he’ll be losing more than just his hair. He knows this. While most of the men in his crew are looking around fearfully, his eyes are lowered and empty—a man who has already given up.
At least until Søren crosses the gangway and comes to stand beside me.
“Min Prinz,” the man says, his gruff voice sharply accenting the Kalovaxian words. My Prinz.
“Captain Rutgard,” Søren says, impassive. I sneak a sideways glance, only to find that his eyes are as emotionless as his voice. He might as well be speaking to a stranger, but he isn’t.
Dragonsbane clears her throat. Her eyes are daggers piercing Søren. “You were meant to stay on the ship, darling,” she says in Astrean, and I realize she’s speaking to me and not Søren, on account of how syrupy her voice has become. It’s the way a person speaks to a child or an invalid.
I curse my decision not to change out of my nightgown. What a sight I must be in this too-big gray shift, with my too-big boots and my hair loose and wild. I must look like some sort of specter, not like a queen at all. I fight the urge to cower and instead stand up straighter, lifting my chin and forcing my voice to stay level.
“Spiros assured me all was safe, and he was right,” I say, sticking to Astrean as well, since the Kalovaxians won’t understand. I pan my gaze slowly around the ship at the dozens of Kalovaxian men cowering on their knees before Astreans with blades held to their throats. It is not a sight I’m used to and I savor it. I begin to wind around the deck, with Søren and his guards following a step behind, and I examine each Kalovaxian I pass. A boy of maybe fifteen looks up at me with fear plain in his eyes. I hold his gaze until he drops his.
“What news do they bring us from Astrea?” I ask, looking back up at Dragonsbane.
“None,” she admits, through clenched teeth. “Yet.”
“I thought they might be a bit more forthcoming to their Prinz,” I say, gesturing to Søren beside me.
Søren doesn’t understand what I’m saying either, but he recognizes his title, his forehead creasing.
“They’ll tell us what we want to know, eventually,” Dragonsbane says, waving a dismissive hand.
“Will they really?” I ask her. “I was under the impression that was not usually the case.”
Dragonsbane’s eyes find Spiros behind me, but before she can reprimand him, I continue. “Søren is their Prinz; they’ll tell him the truth if he can convince them to turn against the Kaiser. Many of these men know him—or at least they know of his legendary skills in battle. They may be more loyal to him than to his father.”
I turn my attention to Søren, keeping my Kalovaxian to a whisper. “We need news from Astrea and they won’t tell us anything, so she’s going to kill them.”
His expression flickers briefly before settling back into placidity. “It’s wise,” he manages. “It’s why no one has been able to describe her or the ship. It’s why no one knows who she is.”
“No one will be able to spread rumors of you rebelling against your father to a court where you still have allies either,” I add.
Understanding sparks in his expression.
“Get the information and we can spare a couple of them. Turn them into our own spies.”
He nods before facing Dragonsbane.
“Captain,” he says, stumbling over the Astrean word. It’s an admirable attempt, but it’s as far as he can go, so he switches to Kalovaxian. “If you would let me be of assistance, I can prove my loyalty.”
Dragonsbane hesitates, eyes darting around to the watching crowd. “Make it quick,” she says in Kalovaxian before switching to Astrean. “It’ll all end the same anyway.”
The Astrean crew members laugh. Though Søren can’t decipher what exactly she said, he understands enough. He takes a deep breath before looking around at the Kalovaxian men on their knees. It takes me a few seconds to realize that he’s searching for a familiar face. It takes a few more before he finds one.
Søren crouches in front of a man in his early twenties with blond hair long enough to brush his collarbones. The man looks up at him with angry, bright green eyes. His arms are twisted behind him, bound by fraying rope, and an Astrean man I don’t recognize stands over him, a knife at the man’s neck.
“Mattin,” Søren says, his voice low and soft. I suppose he’s trying to sound soothing, but the man is far from soothed. “Help me help you, Mattin.”
Mattin stays quiet, his eyes fixed on the deck at Søren’s feet.
“Do you want to see your wife again?” Søren asks, his voice sharpening. “Your daughter—how old is she now? Four?”
That gets Mattin’s attention and he finally looks up at Søren, expression wavering, but still he says nothing.
Søren pushes himself to his feet. “Fine. There are others,” he says, starting to turn away from Mattin, though he does so slowly.
“Wait,” Mattin says feebly after a few seconds. “I’ll talk to you. If you’ll let me live, I’ll talk to you.”
Søren’s eyes dart to me for a brief second, a flash of uncertainty there, before he turns back to Mattin and nods.
The other Kalovaxians erupt in jeers, calling Mattin a traitor and far less savory words I only half understand. But not all of them, I notice. There are some who are staring quietly at the ground, thoughtful.
MATTIN IS MORE DIFFICULT TO get information from than Søren anticipated, and with each moment that passes, I can feel his frustration grow. My own patience is wearing thin, an
d Dragonsbane doesn’t even bother trying to mask her irritation as she paces the deck in front of him. A few of the crew members who were willing to talk were taken belowdecks, so that the information they provided could be corroborated, but many Kalovaxian men are still here, kneeling before their Astrean captors with the blades of knives pressing against their necks.
“Has the Kaiser’s search party already returned to Astrea?” Søren asks for what must be the fifth time.
Again, Mattin shrugs as much as he can with his wrists bound tight behind his back. Though he volunteered, the jeers of his shipmates are giving him second thoughts.
The Astrean man who was guarding Mattin—whose name I’ve learned is Pavlos—digs the edge of his blade a little harder into Mattin’s neck, making him flinch.
“I’m saying that I wasn’t privy to the Kaiser’s plans regarding the heathen Ash Princess and the kidnapped Prinz,” Mattin says, his tone flat. Though it isn’t any kind of answer, some of the Kalovaxians still shout insults at him, ignoring their Astrean captors who try to quiet them.
Dragonsbane’s lips curl and for an instant I expect her to pounce on him, but instead she looks at the man through narrow eyes like he’s an equation she can’t figure out how to solve. She motions to one of her crew members, who drags his dagger across a jeering Kalovaxian’s neck without hesitation. Blood flows from the wound and the body falls to the ground with a thunk. There isn’t even time for him to scream, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from crying out in surprise. For his part, Søren doesn’t even blink. He doesn’t take his eyes off Mattin.
After a moment, Dragonsbane’s gaze shifts to Søren.
“You’re proving quite a useless interrogator, Prinz Søren,” she says in Kalovaxian, drawing out each word so that everyone gathered can hear it.
Søren shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak before quickly closing it again.
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