Page 11 of The Isles of the Gods
He shoves the spectators aside, leaving their indignation in his wake as he lumbers across the empty space of the ring—like he hasn’t noticed there’s a fight on either.
He halts directly in front of me to rumble his greeting, jeweled red pin sparkling at his lapel. “Ruby has a job for you.”
“He hasn’t finished,” the handler protests, his hands tightening on my shoulders properly now.
“Ruby has a job,” Dasriel repeats, like the other man hadn’t spoken.
So I shake off the handler’s grip and grab my shirt from behind the bar, leaving the howls behind me as I elbow my way through the press of bodies to the stairs. This place is always an escape for me. Now it’s an escape for the crowd as well—they feel the tension on the street, sense the dark storm clouds of war looming—and I’ve just deprived them of their distraction. Too bad.
I don’t bother trying to pull my shirt on until I’m on my way up to street level, the cold air outside chilling the sweat on my skin.
And I don’t bother looking back as I follow Dasriel out into the lane, leaving one monster behind to head for another.
SELLY
TheLizabetta
Kirkpool, Alinor
I plant one bare foot against the rough wood of the crosstrees, grabbing a line to hoist myself higher. The mast thins out toward the top, built to sway and give in strong winds, but here in the harbor there’s nothing but a soft evening breeze.
Onshore, the city folk have left their day’s work behind and turned to the taverns—dusk is falling, and most of the light and life I can see spills from open windows along the hills as the locals gather to eat, drink, and try to shake off the tension singing through the city.
There’s always a jump in my belly when we make port and all the new shouts and smells and sights swarm up to greet me. But quick enough, my heart starts straining for the sea, my soul itching for the slap of water on wood.
Tonight I’m grateful we’re not putting out to sea. It’s time for me to retrieve the bag I stashed earlier and slip ashore. By dawn I’ll be on my way to join Da, and Rensa will have no wayto follow. By the time theFreya’s crew finds me, they’ll be too far under way to do anything about it, and nobody’s going to throw Stanton Walker’s daughter overboard.
The view through my eyeglass tells me things have calmed down over on the northern docks—the nobles are on deck, the lazy drawl of a trumpet wafting across the water as someone plays the gramophone, but there’s no sign of the swarm of guards. No sign of that boy, either—not that I’m looking for him in particular.
But like I’ve summoned him, I hear his voice all over again, see the smile in his brown eyes.What’s wrong with flowers?
I snort. And then, of course, I hear him again:Just naturally cranky?
I mentally push him off the crate like I should have done today, watching his arms flail as he tumbles out of view.That cranky enough for you?
Then I realize I’m having an argument with an imaginary person, and turn back to surveying the harbor.
None of it—not the boy across the harbor on those boats, not the captain who thinks I’m currently confined to my cabin—none of it matters, because it’s growing darker by the moment, and soon I’ll be creeping over to theFreya.
I’ll be sorry to leave myLizabetta,though, and I peel off my fingerless leather gloves so I can curl one hand around the line hanging beside me, the rope rough against my skin. We have none of the decorations of the royal fleet, but our ship’s a tried-and-true merchanter. A windjammer, built long and narrow, to run with a small crew and swallow up the leagues with a belly full of cargo. She carries more canvas than any other ship in harbor.
Of all my father’s fleet, I love theLizabettathe best. I grewup navigating the roll of her decks, squeezing into every corner of the hold to hide from his deckhands, falling asleep strapped into my bunk to start it all again the next day.
But this last year she’s been my prison, and as I peer down, I see the reason standing amidships, her silhouette unmistakable. I haven’t given Rensa my father’s letter. She must suspect he’s not coming by now, but if she knewIknow, she’d be on the alert for something like my escape tonight.
Just now she’s by the gangplank, watching it with a strange, almost suspicious intensity, like she’s expecting it to stand up and dance away.
Nearly half the crew’s ashore tonight. We don’t usually wait in port as long as we have for theFortunethis time, and everyone’s antsy. So straws were drawn, and Rensa sent the lucky few off to have some fun, and probably blow every last crown of their pay. I’m confined to the ship, after she tore pieces off me for getting back late this afternoon.
Why is Rensa so fixed on having her crew back? It’s only just past dusk, and they’ll be gone for hours yet, so why is she standing here waiting as if they’re late coming home?
Perhaps she’s finally sensed the tension in the city I’ve been sniffing for days now—the whispers of the city dwellers realizing what we saltbloods have known for months: the storm clouds are gathering.
Or wait—does she suspect I’m planning on using that gangplank myself? I really hope not—if she’s going to stand there all night, I’m in for a very unpleasant swim.
As I’m trying not to think about the freezing cold waters of Kirkpool’s harbor, something moves in the shadows near the bow—it’s the scholar.
Where Rensa is short and solid, he’s tall and gangly, like a collection of arms and legs all desperately trying to pretend they don’t know each other. Her skin is a warm brown, made browner by decades at sea, and his is the kind of dazzling white you get from a whole life spent indoors. He came aboard this morning with trunks full of books too heavy for him to lift and took passage for Trallia, which is where theLizabetta’s headed next.
