by Barb Hendee
Light began to grow in the archway down the side passage.
A gusting breeze suddenly rushed out of the main passage, and in curling around the intersection’s corner, it whipped Osha’s loose hair.
Instinct and old training took hold, and Osha slipped around the corner. He barely had time to note that all light in the main passage, all the way to the far door, was gone. Osha planted one foot against the passage’s far wall as he pushed against the near wall, and he hand-and-foot-walked up both walls to hide against the passage’s ceiling.
• • •
At those sounds of footfalls down the side passage, Chane was caught between ducking back the way he and Osha had come or trying to catch whoever was down the main passage’s far end. He barely heard more than felt a sudden movement of air behind him, and when he turned . . .
Osha was gone.
Chane ducked around the near corner. Even with his senses still fully widened, he saw no one in the passage all the way to where it ended at a heavy wooden door with iron fixtures and a barred sentry window. There was no sign of the two living beings he had smelled . . . or of Osha.
He heard that those other footfalls had already entered the side passage.
Hoping to slip outside and hide until whatever guards came and went, Chane ran to the passage’s end door. It was not only bolted within by a heavy bar—the bar itself was fixed in place by a padlock.
Where was Osha, let alone anyone else who had been in this passage?
Chane quickly peered out through the door’s small barred sentry window and saw no one outside between the grounds’ outer wall and the barracks off to the left. When he turned, there was an archway to the door’s right side. Stepping through there and down two steps to a landing revealed only another short flight of stairs, parallel to the passage, that ended at another heavy door. He checked it and found it locked. He was trapped with nowhere to go.
Chane returned to the passage’s end and the door leading outside.
He could smell Osha, though perhaps that lingered from the elf’s passing. A vulgar dwarven word came to mind—yiannû-billê—heard once from Ore-Locks addressing a pompous Lhoin’na shé’ith who had gotten in their way.
Where had Osha, that gangly, interloping “bush-baby,” gone to now?
Three keep guards rounded the far corner in the passage. The one in the lead held an opened oil lantern. All three stopped at the sight of Chane.
Fighting his way out of this would do no good and only get Wynn thrown out of the keep.
“Forgive me,” Chane said, forcing modesty. “I seem to have taken a wrong turn. Could you direct me to the privy?”
• • •
Hidden in the dark against the passage’s high ceiling, Osha watched as Chane was marched off. He waited until the sound of footsteps and any semblance of light faded completely.
Only then did Osha drop softly to the floor. He believed he could still make it back to the guest quarters on his own, but instead, he soft-stepped to the passage’s end and the door.
Neither Chane nor the guards had found anyone else here, but the old sage and the tall companion had to have gone somewhere. Most likely, judging by the sudden breeze, they had slipped out the door. Yet that was not possible. He would have heard any attempt to open the heavy iron lock with a key. And, likewise, he looked through the right-side archway and down a short flight of steps to another door. Since the undead had quickly returned to the main passage, then that lower door must be locked as well.
Osha lingered longer in looking up the passage. Where had that sharp breeze come from? Where had the elder sage and his tall companion gone? Why had they been inching along and peering at the floor, and what was that object the sage held while the companion handled the old one’s crystal?
Osha found himself at a loss for any answers. The guards would most likely return Chane to the guest rooms. The moment they did so, they would notice one other guest was missing upon putting him in his room.
Wynn had specifically warned them not to cause trouble. Raising an alarm among this place’s inhabitants and causing a full search would certainly qualify. Still, if Osha chose to, he could evade the guards until morning and look about further before simply reappearing at the morning meal.
So little, mostly more questions, had been gained in this search, but Wynn had her purpose to fulfill. He wanted her to believe he served that—for her—and not to cause her even minor failures. She, and whatever she needed, was all that he had left of value in a life without purpose.
With a sigh, Osha crept back the way he had come.
Chapter Thirteen
Far down the coast, aboard the Djinn, Magiere had soon realized her initial instincts about Captain Amjad had been right—after it was too late to act. With no stops between Soráno and il’Dha’ab Najuum, she and her companions were trapped. When they’d boarded, her doubts had been only whispers in her mind. When supper was served the first night aboard, her worries had grown. She, Leesil, Chap, Wayfarer, and Brot’an were given four small pieces of flat bread and what appeared to be dried fish to share.
The flat breads were about three bites each and tasted stale. When Wayfarer tried to chew the fish, she paled. Magiere tasted it herself and found it overly salted, old, and almost leathery. Chap spit it out, and he would eat almost anything. All of them went to bed hungry that night.
Magiere mentioned that the cook was probably busy setting up stores and hadn’t had time to make a proper meal. But she suspected that no one believed her, and the next morning they’d been given four pieces of flat bread and dried fish for breakfast. When they ended up with the same for supper that second night, Leesil privately expressed concern. Wayfarer already wasn’t looking well. Her people lived on fresh fish and fresh or dried fruits and vegetables.
They never saw the cook, for all meals were delivered by a skeletal boy who didn’t speak any Numanese and always looked at the floor. Complaining to him would be pointless if not cruel.
And now, a good number of days into the long run down the desert coast, the ship’s cook hadn’t provided anything better. They were all beginning to weaken, especially Wayfarer.
More than once Magiere had considered finding the captain, but he’d made it clear that any complaints would fall on deaf ears.
However, sitting on his bunk and looking down at another “breakfast,” Leesil finally shook his head.
“That’s enough. I’m having a word with the captain.”
Chap lay beside him on the bunk. Wayfarer and Brot’an were still in their own cabin. The girl had emerged looking hopeful at each meal, and Magiere could barely stand the thought of seeing her disappointed again.
Leesil was right, warnings or not.
In the small, shabby cabin, Magiere had to slouch when she stood up. “I’m coming with you.”
Both Leesil and Chap eyed her, and even the dog appeared to frown. Their anxious worry that in a heated moment she might lose herself . . . to her other half only made her feel worse. She both needed and resented them for this.
“I’m fine,” she said coldly. “And if I throw the cook over the side, it’ll be a conscious choice.”
One corner of Leesil’s mouth twitched, and he nodded at the bad joke. Chap rumbled, though he didn’t lift his head from his paws.
“All right, since you speak Numanese better,” Leesil agreed, and he flipped his hand toward the flat bread, showing traces of mold, on the bunk. “There have to be other food stores on board, as I doubt the captain eats this refuse. Chap, stay here, and when Wayfarer comes, tell her that we’ll be back shortly.”
Chap’s crystalline blue eyes rolled toward Leesil, and Magiere wondered what the dog had to say about this. When Leesil only shook his head and stepped toward the door, Magiere followed.
They’d all spent much of their time below deck, going up for fresh air only
when necessary. The crew was as bad as the bread, hard and filthy, and Magiere didn’t want any more to do with them than necessary. The only good luck they’d had on this voyage was Leesil’s usual seasickness passing more quickly than ever before, likely because he’d been stuck on some ship for so long.
Magiere followed him up on deck, and they emerged into a bright morning. Several unwashed sailors looked over, but she ignored them. Of the entire crew, only one had struck her as worth the bother. He was young, with dark, curling hair, and seemed determined to keep the ship a bit cleaner, or at least try. She’d spoken to him a few times, and he was polite enough. A few days ago she’d learned that his name was Saeed.
Looking around, she spotted him once again scrubbing the faded deck with a bucket of dipped seawater. He actually smiled as she and Leesil approached, but his smile faded when he saw her expression.
“Where’s the captain?” she demanded.
“Magiere!” Leesil whispered.
She took a long breath to calm herself, but she was too angry. Back in Soráno, Leesil had had to go out gambling to pay the very high passage fee, and now Wayfarer was slowly starving.
Saeed rose from his knees with his breeches soaked, and studied Magiere’s face with his dark eyes before pointing toward the prow. “There . . . but he will not hear you.”
“Oh, yes, he will,” Magiere answered, turning away toward the prow.
As she rounded the front mast, there was Captain Amjad sitting on a barrel and stuffing his face with a handful of plump dried figs. Two large, equally well-fed men stood nearby with curved blades tucked in their ragged sashes.
Magiere’s breathing started to quicken and deepen.
Amjad was repulsive from his looks to his odor, from his greasy hair to his round face of sparse patchy, straggly strands in place of a real beard. Several of his front teeth were blackened.
Magiere closed on him so quickly that she left Leesil a few steps behind.
“You need to do something about those meals your cook sends us.” She started right in. “Even our dog can’t eat that swill!”
Amjad didn’t flinch or react, and only spat a fig pit out across the deck. “You eat what the crew eats, as I told you before we left port.”
Glancing around, Magiere noticed the crew didn’t look any better than she and hers felt. Were they all living on nothing but molding bread and hardened dried fish? Then she felt Leesil’s grip latch on to the back of her belt.
“Girl with us ill,” he cut in, attempting his best Numanese as he pointed to the bowl of figs on the barrel beside the captain. “She needs fruits . . . vegetables.”
Amjad turned away. “All foodstuffs in the hold go to market in il’Dha’ab Najuum. If you wanted better, you should have bought your own back in port. You paid for passage . . . only.”
Magiere realized further talk was pointless, as this wretch wouldn’t do anything to help Wayfarer. The day grew suddenly too bright in Magiere’s eyes. Her irises must have turned black as she felt her teeth begin to change, pressing against the clench of her jaw.
And she didn’t care.
Her left hand shot toward Amjad’s throat . . . and didn’t connect as Leesil jerked on her belt.
Amjad came off the barrel in a spin. When he came around to face her, there was a small knife in his right hand as both of his guards pulled their curved blades. But when he looked her in the eyes, his own widened a fraction and then narrowed.
Leesil kept a tight grip on Magiere’s belt and held out his other hand. “No trouble.”
Magiere stiffened, stopping herself from striking back to break Leesil’s hold. She felt tears running down her cheeks from sunlight burning her widened irises, and she fought to pull herself under control.
Most people cringed in fear at first seeing her like this. Amjad did not, though the two men behind him stalled, perhaps waiting on their captain.
“No docks, no ports for many days to come,” Amjad said, still gripping his knife. “If you wish, you can swim for shore and walk the rest of the way. Maybe you will survive long enough to see il’Dha’ab Najuum from somewhere in the distance before you perish.”
Magiere wanted to take his knife and ram it down his throat. He hadn’t even mentioned before leaving Soráno that they should bring their own food. He’d only warned them not to complain about the food, and she’d had no idea what that had really meant. She slid one foot back, easing the tension of Leesil’s grip, before she turned her head just a little toward him.
Leesil looked calm on the outside, but his amber eyes were hard. And when facing a threat, he was at his most dangerous when he was silent, still, and apparently at ease. Magiere clung to that, and it helped her regain more control.
“Thank you for time—we make do,” Leesil said quietly, turning away and pulling Magiere along.
Once they reached their cabin, and the sunlight no longer burned her eyes, Magiere became herself again. When she entered the cabin behind Leesil, both of them ducking to get through the door, they found Wayfarer on the bunk with Chap. Brot’an wasn’t there, and the girl looked pale and tired, even though she’d been sleeping a good deal.
“Did you speak with the captain?” Wayfarer asked.
Obviously Chap had somehow told the girl, and Magiere’s anger was smothered under desperation. “It didn’t do any good.”
Wayfarer dropped her eyes and swallowed with effort.
“Chap,” Leesil said, soft but sharp, “take Wayfarer up on deck for some air.”
As the dog lifted his head and stared, so did the girl, and old fears rose on her face.
“Must I?” Wayfarer asked.
“Yes,” he answered flatly. “You need the air. Chap will watch over you.”
Chap studied Leesil for a long moment and then hopped off the bunk.
Magiere wasn’t certain why Leesil was sending them both away, though likely it had something to do with her near loss of control with the captain.
Wayfarer struggled up and followed Chap, and Leesil closed the door behind them. When he turned around, he didn’t mention the scene with Amjad and only tilted his head toward the nearest bunk.
Magiere settled there, watching as he came to join her and pull off his old head scarf to let his white-blond hair hang loose. She could feel the warmth of his thigh against hers.
“Some of this is our fault,” he said. “I had a bad feeling about this ship the moment we stepped on board.”
Perhaps he just wanted to talk, and part of her was relieved. She couldn’t stand for him to express any “concerns” about her nearly grabbing the captain by the throat.
“So did I,” she agreed. “When he said not to complain about the food, I thought it meant meals would be simple.”
Meals on the Cloud Queen hadn’t been fancy, but the cook often served freshly boiled oats in the morning, and fish stews—with vegetables—late in the day. They had traveled on many ships over the past two years. Adequate though simple meals had always been part of passage.
“We’re trapped . . . and Wayfarer is growing weaker each day,” Leesil said, grabbing her hand without looking at her. “For the rest of the voyage, you’ll have to trust me.”
Magiere tensed at this, for she didn’t know what he really meant. Then he turned on her almost too quickly, released her hand, and took her face with both of his hands.
“Do you trust me?” he whispered.
She trusted him in all things except for his seeing to his own safety.
“Leesil—” she began, and he stopped her with the press of his mouth on hers.
She knew what he was doing—trying to distract her. At first she almost pushed him off for such a weak ploy . . . until his mouth slowly moved against hers.
He pulled away slightly, brushing his lips along her cheek.
“That’s a cheap trick,” she grow
led at him.
“Is it working?”
With a rumble in her throat, Magiere grabbed Leesil by the shirt and pinned him on the bunk.
• • •
Wayfarer did not remain on deck for long. She felt dizzy and weak all of the time now and did not think Chap would force her to stay out longer than she wished. Neither she nor Chap was a fool, and Léshil obviously wished to speak alone with Magiere.
The fresh air did feel good, but this vessel’s crew was more frightening than any she had encountered. By the way Chap watched every movement, he did not care for most of them, either.
“Can we go below?” she asked. “To my cabin . . . if you can tolerate Brot’ân’duivé.”
—Better than being up here—
With relief she followed him to the aftcastle and down the steep steps, but when she reached the lower narrow passage . . .
“Wayfarer.”
Turning in alarm, she looked up to find Saeed leaning through the short doorway above, and he quickly climbed down. Of all sailors on this ship, he was different.
There had been a time when being trapped in a narrow space with any human male would have frightened her speechless. But Saeed was always polite and well mannered and had been the one to inadvertently warn her in Soráno that the team of anmaglâhk had arrived, though he had not known who and what they were. Chap was familiar enough with him not to snarl or snap in warning.
As Saeed stepped down into the passage, he reached into his loose shirt. “I snuck these down for you.”
Wayfarer’s breath caught. In his hands were two large red apples, and the thought of fresh fruit made her want to snatch one and bite it. She looked up at him. From what she had seen on this ship, he had probably not eaten any better than she had. The captain fulfilled all of the lesser evils she had been taught about humans.
“It is all right,” he said, holding them out as if he guessed her thoughts. “Sailors who make this run with Captain Amjad learn the hard way to buy—and hide—food before leaving a port.”