Page 12 of The Isles of the Gods
When he first arrived, wrapped up in his heavy woolen peacoat, I thought he was my father’s age. He has a scholar’s stoop, his hair shaved close to his head—that boy doesnothave the skull shape for it—and it was only when Rensa made me carry the last of his bags down that I realized he was my age. I like him, even though he’s a strange sort of creature. We only spoke for a few moments, but he seems like someone who gets to the point.
There’s movement below on the dock, and at the same time a breeze ruffles the new spirit flags Kyri strung up this afternoon. I pull my gloves back on and ease silently down to the next crosstrees, my bare feet finding purchase in the rigging, then lean sideways, hanging out from the mast by one hand.
Rensa moves suddenly, walking down the gangplank to where an auto’s pulling up with a low purr, the engine falling silent as it stops. It must be another passenger—cargo would have come in a truck, or on a horse-drawn wagon, and not at this hour—which means there’s yet another thing Rensa didn’t tell me.
We barely ever take passengers, and our one cabin’s already full up with the scholar. Kyri and I haven’t moved our things out of our little nook, but it’s hard to imagine someoneshowing up in an auto likethatand sleeping with the crew in hammocks.
As I creep down the mast, moving through the rigging as silent as a spirit, a chauffeur jumps out of the auto, tugging his white gloves straight as he jogs around to get the door, pulling it open and standing to one side.
A man steps out—or maybe a boy, it’s hard to tell in the shadows. He’s young, dark-haired, clad in a well-cut suit, a flash of his white shirt showing underneath. He turns in a slow circle, taking in the docks, the prince’s fleet, theLizabetta.And for a moment, I think he smiles.
He moves in an easy, loose-limbed way that’s strangely familiar, nodding to the driver but making no move to help him unload luggage from the back of the auto. That’swaytoo many bags for the class of passenger we take aboard a ship like ours. They don’t arrive with servants, either.
What in seven hells is going on?
Another gust of breeze comes pushing past me, tugging stray blond wisps free of my braid and setting the rigging swinging around me.
Rensa steps forward to meet the stranger. The gramophone across the water mutes their voices, but her stance is unmistakable. She bobs her weight back and forth as though she isn’t sure how to greet the new arrival.
Rensa’snervous.
In the past year I’ve seen Rensa every kind of thing—bellowing frustration, standing hard at the helm in battering seas, singing shamelessly off-key in the evenings, gritting her teeth at my latest complaint—but I’ve never,everseen her lost for what to do next.
The new arrival solves the problem by offering her his hand. They exchange handshakes and a few murmured words, heads together. Then, with a cheerful wave, he sends the driver away.
I creep lower, fumbling inside my jacket pocket for my eyeglass. I raise it, twisting the little tube until he comes into focus. Rensa holds up a lantern, and I see him more clearly now in the circle of my magnified vision.
I see dancing brown eyes, and lips curving to a self-satisfied smile. He lifts one hand to push his fingers through tousled black hair, and I see the intricate magician’s marks on the back of his hand.
But what…?
Of all the people in Kirkpool who could have walked aboard, what’s the boy from the docks doinghere?
I climb hurriedly down the rigging, grasping at the cables as the lights of the prince’s fleet twinkle through the darkness. The wind is picking up properly now, the spirit flags flapping around me, and where the strings of lights are reflected in the water, new ripples make them shimmer and dance.
I didn’t think this kind of weather was due until morning—dawn is when Kirkpool’s breeze usually makes an appearance—but it’s as if the air around me is as off balance as I am.
Has the boy come to complain to Rensa, to report what I said about the prince and his friends? That seems impossible, and anyway, he’s got luggage. But what could he possibly…?
My bare feet find the deck damp with dew, and I ease my weight down slowly, trying to think what I should do. Rensa and the boy are nowhere in sight now. They must have gone belowdecks.
Should I leave straightaway, without slipping down to getmy bag? I’m still barefoot from climbing the mast, and it’s one thing to leave my bag behind, but another to abandon my boots. And whatever reason brought the boy here, it’s something out of the ordinary, which means I should carry that information to Da. The more I have to share, the less time his grumpiness will take to pass.
That, and I’ll die of curiosity before theFreyarounds the southern tip of Mellacea.
I stay close to the mast as the scholar walks by, steps hurried as he makes for the companionway with his head down. He’s cautious, holding on to the railing with both hands, as though the ship is some crafty, flighty creature who might take it into her head to buck him overboard, rather than a well-behaved lady moored at dock.
He meets Rensa, on her way back up from carrying the mystery boy’s luggage downstairs—what was thecaptaindoing playing porter?—and she pauses so he can squeeze past, holding tight to the railing. He manages to navigate his way to the bottom without falling down the stairs. So that’s an improvement from this morning, at least.
The new arrival is nowhere in sight—he must have stayed wherever she stashed him belowdecks.
Rensa heads toward the stern, her stride purposeful, and I move quietly after her, ears practically flapping in the growing breeze. She stops just short of the wheel, and as I creep down the edge of the deck to flank her, the shrine comes into view. It’s a sheltered spot set against the mizzenmast, almost like a fireplace but deeper. There are spirit flags strung across what would be the mantelpiece, and instead of a fire, you canusually find little gifts from the crew. I don’t go anywhere near it if I can help it.
Our first mate and ship’s magician, Kyri, is crouched by the shrine in the near dark, whispering as she lights the green candles I brought back from the city today, her face hidden by her sheet of red hair. As I watch, the candles start to vanish—not melting, but slowly disappearing into thin air from the top down as the spirits consume the offering.
Sothat’swhere the breeze came from. My own magic may be useless, but I still know how these things work. If Kyri’s charming this many spirits on her own, that’s a huge piece of work. It’s one thing to encourage them to stir the breeze a little stronger, or ease it off, or tilt it the way we want it. It’s another to get the air around us moving on a dead-still night. I didn’t think Kyri was capable of something like this.
In fact, I’m sure she’s not.
