Page 42 of The Isles of the Gods
SELLY
TheLizabetta
The Crescent Sea
The steamer appears over the horizon, and the taste of my fear turns sour in my mouth.
My mind’s spent the past hours conjuring up pictures of the broken progress fleet, splintered timbers in the water, flowers and bodies floating among them. Trying to imagine that wreckage is theLizabetta,andwelie still in the water—then shying away from that terrible picture.
I’ve always known there was a chance I’d end up on the bottom—every sailor does. But I’ve neverbelievedit.
We’ve hoisted every inch of canvas we have, we’ve trimmed our sails, we’ve thrown everything we don’t need and some things we do overboard to lighten the load, to eke a fraction more speed out of our groaning ship. When we left Kirkpool, I could barely believe we were sailing high in the water, without a cargo to pay our way. Now I’m desperately grateful our hold was empty.
And still they’re going to catch us. Our pursuers are following the trail of debris we’ve left behind like it’s a path we’ve laid out for them, our belongings and supplies disappearing beneath their bow.
Leander is starting to sway where he stands, and Kyri’s on all fours by the shrine. Her candles are nearly down to stubs, the spirits consuming them far faster than I’ve ever seen before, but he hasn’t taken anything from anyone in hours. I’ve had enough failed lessons to know what that means. He’s paying the spirits withhimself.
The ship surges forward on great white-tipped waves, but the steamer’s fires are burning, and she’s coming faster.
I stand at the gunwale near Rensa, my hair blowing around my face as I watch the big gray steamer eating up the distance between us, and soon enough I can make out individual figures on her deck, see the portholes along the side.
The last of the gap seems to disappear all at once—she looms above us as she comes up astern, and then big Jonlon’s by my side, pressing a glass bottle into my hand. It’s full of the captain’s good booze and oil from the galley, a rag stuffed into the mouth.
“Don’t throw too soon,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders for a quick squeeze, deathly tight. Big, strong, quiet Jonlon, a decade and a half in my father’s service. He used to fish me out of the cargo hold, where I’d go to cry after a visit to a new magician in a new port. He’d hand me a boiled sweet and lead me off to something that needed doing, then silently remain until I was all right.
And we’re about to die together.
The scholar’s behind us, dragging a basket of bottles acrossthe deck, and a brazier he’s made out of one of the cook’s big pots. His pale face is deathly white, his mouth set in a determined line.
He and the prince should be back at school, squabbling over homework like the rich boys they are. Not…not this.
But the steamer’s drawing abeam, coming up beside us, and I can see their guns. Their cannons.
A wave from their bow surges out toward us, and theLizabettaheels dangerously, shouts going up all along the deck.
“Now!” the scholar calls, dipping his first bottle into the coals. The wick catches alight, and he draws his arm back, narrowing his eyes. I can practically see the calculations allowing for crosswind and speeds of travel. Then he hurls it toward the enemy.
It arcs through the air, the flame drawn out long and thin behind it, and smashes into a sailor on the steamer. Fire engulfs him, and though the wind rips away his screams, I stare as he throws his arms up.
In two quick steps he’s jumping over the side, and he vanishes beneath the water. One hand thrusts above the surface, but he’s already in our wake, and an instant later I lose sight of him.
And then fire is flying through the air, and shots are ringing out, and everyone’s shouting.
Keegan stands beside Jonlon, the two of them hurling their glass-bottle bombs, and my hand shakes as I lean down to dip the head of mine into the coals. It catches alight, and there’s no time to hesitate—I draw my arm back and throw it as hard as I can, tracing its path all the way to the steamer’s deck, where it lands between two sailors, showering them with sparks.
BOOM!
The whole deck beneath me shakes, and I whip around to see it broken and splintered, a hole gaping in the boards.
The cannons.
Keegan’s climbing to his feet, and Jonlon’s on his knees, holding his arm—he’s bleeding, and there’s a jagged piece of wood sticking out of it.
“Kyri!” The shout comes from Rensa, hoarse and urgent, wrenched out of her.
Kyri is lying sprawled by the shrine, arms outflung, red hair loose from her braid and whipping in the wind, and she stares up at the sky.
There’s blood all over her, and the flames on her candles, which withstood a gale until now, have suddenly gone out.
