The Reader (22 page)

The woman in black drew a sword. The scent of metal fanned out as it hissed through the cold air. He gagged. The steel smelled of blood. The sword swung outward in a coppercolored arc, daring him to approach.

He heard the shot almost as soon as he saw the flash behind her. The woman spun. He had never seen anyone react so fast. Blood fountained from her shoulder, but she was still on her feet. The shot would have killed her if she hadn't twisted out of the way.

Then, in one smooth movement, she flung herself over the rails of the ship. Arms out, her body poised like a diving bird, she was just a shadow against the swirling mist.

There was another shot. It hit her on the way down, right through the head. Her arms and legs went limp, and she plummeted into the water like a stone.

Silence. A tall, lean figure crossed the deck, holding up a smoking gun. The man paused by the rail, looking down into the water, but there was only the murmuring of waves on the hull.

Even in the dim light, Archer recognized the weapon: all black, with engravings of scales and dull gold inlay. The Executioner. A cursed weapon. Over the years the Executioner had traded hands so many times no one remembered who had owned it first. But everyone knew who owned it now.

Archer swayed on his feet, watching the man come closer.

Now the Executioner belonged to Cannek Reed, captain of the
Current of Faith
.

Archer felt the crew members turn on him. They hadn't put their weapons down. Eleven of them, and him alone. Didn't they recognize him? Didn't they know him from the pier? He wished Sefia were there. She'd be able to explain it all. He was keenly aware of his bleeding, the way his skin had been opened up by the woman's knife. He poised for a fight.

“Lay off,” someone said. The big man Archer had helped on the stairs pushed through the ring of sailors—Horse, the ship's carpenter. “The kid saved my life.”

They hesitated, but Archer did not relax. His gaze flicked over them, counting weapons, checking for weaknesses.

Captain Reed looked over Archer's shoulder at the chief mate, who stood beyond the circle of the crew. “Well?” he asked.

The mate nodded. “Horse has a nose for these things. There's a girl belowdecks too . . . with Cooky and the doc.” He sighed. “Harison's dead. Knifed in the throat.”

The crew began muttering and Archer raised his hands defensively, but Reed silenced them. He still held the Executioner. “This ain't the first time we've had trouble on our own ship, and it ain't gonna be the last. Horse, take the boy to the great cabin.”

Archer felt the big man's hand on the crook of his arm, but he tugged away. The captain was giving orders so rapidly that Archer, dizzy with blood loss, was having a difficult time
following, but he fought off light-headedness until he heard him mention Sefia.

“—fetch the girl and bring her to the cabin too.”

Archer started forward, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. His legs wouldn't seem to carry him. But he wasn't going to let them take her.

“Easy, kid.” Horse put his hand on Archer's shoulder.

The rest of the crew had dispersed. Reed came up to Archer then, walking softly, keeping his distance. The Executioner seemed to absorb all the light that struck it, like a shadow in the captain's hand. “I remember you,” he murmured. “I don't know how you got on my ship or what you're doin' here, but best not stir up any trouble, if you and the girl want to get through this alive.”

Archer nodded and let Horse take him by the elbow, leading him across the main deck. He got one last glimpse of the sky before the door closed behind him.

A
s the chief mate and the other members of the larboard watch descended the main hatchway to the lowest level of the ship, the hold filled with the thudding of footsteps and the creaking of lamp hinges. While the men searched for signs of the stowaways, the mate wandered among the stores, checking the insides of a crate, lifting the lid on a barrel. Though he was blind, he could tell the slabs of salted meat had small chunks carved out of their undersides, and some of the oldest and hardest fruit was missing—not so much that you'd notice, but enough to confirm that the kids from Black Boar Pier had been hiding there since they'd left Epidram.

It troubled him. With his acute sense of the ship's inner workings, he should have been able to sniff out two stowaways as soon as they boarded. With the rats taking bits of their stores every day, it was easy to hide a little thievery here and there, but
hiding two people altogether—it had never been done. Not on the
Current
.

Jules had found something near the center of the hold. The chief mate knew it the moment her shoulders straightened and her cheeks warmed with a sense of satisfaction. Before she'd even called out, “Found it, sir,” he was already making his way toward her.

The mate wound expertly through the stacks of foodstuffs and spare parts until he reached Jules. The others gathered around.

“Well?” he demanded. “Where is it?”

Jules hesitated. That was unusual. With her counterpart on the starboard watch, Theo, she led chanties while the crew raised the sails, while they sweated and heaved at the capstans. She was reliable and decisive in a position where rhythm mattered most. She rarely hesitated.

There was an indistinct murmur from the other sailors.

They were surprised.

The mate must have been joking.

“Sir?” she asked. Her ordinarily strong voice wavered like silk in water. “It's right in front of you.”

The mate had inherited the ability to communicate with the trees from his grandmother's grove in Everica. Near the end of the Rock-and-River Wars, when the Everican provinces fought each other for land and resources, the lumber from the grove had been used to build a sleek ship with a tree for a figurehead. Now the timbers of the
Current
told him what was happening on the ship so clearly that he often forgot he no longer had the
use of his eyes. But now, for the first time in a long time, he remembered that he was blind—well and truly blind. And from the sounds of their voices, the crew had remembered it too.

Aware of the growing sense of alarm in Jules and the others, the mate reached out and took a few halting steps, adopting the bent shuffle he'd never thought he'd have to use again. He felt old, hands groping at the air, feet sliding across the floor until his fingertips brushed the hard edge of a crate.

“Well, I'll be—” He ran his hands over it, not entirely convinced it was there at all.

But his inability to see it was not the cause of the deep disquiet within him. Something even more troubling was inside.

“Jules, is there anything peculiar about the contents of this crate?”

Jules's surprise flitted across her broad face like a bat at dusk. “No, sir,” she said, reaching inside.

The mate gulped. Inside the crate, Jules's strong tattooed arm had completely vanished. That must have been how the stowaways had escaped his notice; everything inside it was invisible too. But only to him.

“Just packs and some bedding.” Jules stood, pulling two packs from the crate. To the mate they seemed to have materialized out of thin air.

A wave of vertigo struck him. His knees felt weak. The smaller pack, more worn than the other, dangled from Jules's hand like offal. Something inside it made him feel dizzy and small—very, very small—a diminutive speck no bigger or more significant than a mote of dust. It reeked of magic.

He scooped both packs out of Jules's grasp. Though it was
lighter than he expected, the smaller pack gave the impression of being heavy and unwieldy, like a brimming bucket of water in danger of overflowing.

“Keep searching,” he said, heading for the stairs. “Make sure there aren't any more surprises down here.”

The others stared after him, wondering what was wrong.

Why he had shuddered when Jules took out the packs.

Why he was afraid.

“And bring up that crate,” he called over his shoulder. “The captain will want to see it too.”

He found Reed on deck with the starboard watch, prowling the perimeter of the ship. The night air was cool and thick with moisture.

“Can't see a stone's throw in this fog,” the captain said as he approached. The man hefted the Executioner in his hand and continued pacing. “You find out where them kids was hidin' all this time?”

The mate trailed one hand over the rail as he walked. The curve of the wood grounded him to the ship, and his senses spread to the timbers and the sails and the running lines, down to the sick bay where Cooky stood vigil over Harison's body, and up to the crow's nest where Aly crouched, peering into the cold.

The packs hung loosely from his other hand. He told Reed what he had found.

“Dangerous?” the captain asked.

“More strange than dangerous.” With his keen senses, he riffled through the contents of the packs without opening them, carefully avoiding the thing at the bottom of the smaller one.

Reed eyed the packs. “Never thought we'd see them kids again, after the brushup on Black Boar. When we interrogate 'em, put the packs on the floor,” he said. “I wanna see how they react.”

Jules and the others brought the crate from the hold and heaved it onto the main deck before the mate dismissed them. Taking one of the lanterns from a nearby sconce, Reed approached the crate cautiously—or at least the mate thought he was approaching it. He made a face, hating his inability to sense where it was.

The captain chuckled at his discomfiture and extended his hands flat into the air. “I never thought I'd see the day you'd be blindsided by something on the
Current
.”

“Guess it's up to you, then,” the mate answered sourly. “Be my eyes.”

Reed laughed softly and got on his hands and knees, disappearing up to his waist. The mate grimaced, sensing only half of the captain's body, unattached to a torso but still moving, still alive. The rest of him reappeared a few minutes later, removing a couple blankets, which he folded neatly and placed aside. Then he stood and bent at the waist as if he were bowing.

He set the lantern on top of the crate—to the mate it seemed to float eerily in midair—and peered at one of the corners. He must have seen something—and whatever it was drained all the humor from him. He tapped his chest and stood upright again.

“Captain?”

“C'mere,” Reed said. As the mate approached, the captain took his hand and drew his fingers to the corner of the crate.
Scratches. The splintery carvings bit into his skin, but he could not make sense of them.

“Means nothing to me,” the mate said, “but I don't like it.”

The captain straightened and looked toward the stern, where the stowaways were waiting in the great cabin with Doc and Horse. He spun the cylinder of his revolver with his thumb over and over—a sound like chattering teeth.

Reed hadn't been this angry in a long time. It emanated from him like currents of heat, so loud and blistering that without even probing him, the chief mate could sense flashes of pain in his chest, visions of black and amber liquid, shame. The mate winced but didn't pry any further.

“What're you planning on doing with them?” he asked.

Reed didn't answer.

In the silence, Cooky poked his head out of the main hatch. His narrow eyes were puffy with crying and as he sniffled, dozens of rings tinkled along the lobes of his ears. “Cap,” he said, walking toward them. His voice was thick and wet. As he came up to the rail, he rubbed his nose. “I'm glad I caught you.”

In the face of Cooky's grief, Reed shook himself, and the edge of his anger dulled. “How're you doin', Cooky?”

The man rubbed his hand over his smooth scalp. “I'm doin' all right, Cap, thanks. Doc's tendin' to the boy now, but she wanted me to tell you somethin' before you went in there.” He sniffed. “She said . . . she was surprised Harison lasted long enough for me to fetch her. I guess with wounds like that, most folks bleed out in a few minutes. She said it was mighty peculiar.”

Now that was something. Doc had seen her share of battle wounds and mystical ailments. She wouldn't have mentioned it unless it was worth noting. Somehow, the girl had given Harison a few extra minutes, though it hadn't been enough to save him.

Reed nodded curtly. “Thank you, Cooky.”

The cook shifted on his feet and rubbed his nose. “Uh, one more thing, Cap?”

“Yeah?”

“Go easy on 'em, would you? They seem like good kids.”

The captain pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes. “That's what I thought too, when we rescued 'em from Hatchet. But then they ended up stealing onto my ship.”

“Yes, Cap.”

As the cook trudged away, Reed shook his head. “I don't like killin' kids . . . but we could strand 'em. There's a coupla islands out here. They might get picked up.”

The islands between Oxscini and Jahara were bare sand-swept places with little cover and no freshwater. “Picked up by whom? Dimarion's behind us somewhere. You know what he'll do to them if he finds them.” The mate grimaced. “Aren't you even going to question them first?”

“'Course I am. I got too many questions that need answerin'.” His anger burst from him again in hot sparks, though the only outward sign was the tightening of his fingers on the Executioner. “One way or another.”