Page 7 of The Isles of the Gods
That must be theFreyaat the end, sandwiched in by two dirty steamships, her sturdy hull built to ply the North Passage. My pace quickens as I round the curve of the port towardher.
And I run straight into a barricade across the mouth of the dock.
Beyond it is the very fleet Prince Leander was heading for—a cluster of elegant schooners, their rigging hung with flags and wreathed with flowers. I’ve been watching them across the harbor for the last few days, but this is the first time I’ve been up close.
It’s a hive of activity around them—sailors are hauling crates in teams, and above them rickety cranes hoist nets of cargo aboard, swinging them around to lower them to the deck. There’s a truck backing up slowly to the edge of the dock, industriously waved in by three deckhands. Someone’s playing arecord on a gramophone down on the foredeck of the nearest ship. Girls in bright colors are dancing, throwing their arms up and shimmying to make the fringes on their dresses fan out, then dissolving into laughter as they try the steps again. They’re ignoring the work going on around them, hordes of workers readying the fleet for departure.
So much fuss for one spoiled boy.
The queen is sending her brother off to charm the rulers of Alinor’s neighbors, and he’s gallivanting away like he’s off to a fancy afternoon tea with dozens of his closest friends, oblivious to the tension in the air.
I’m sure the fleet won’t be foolish enough to go as far as Mellacea, so the boats won’t be searched and taxed as we sailors have been these past months. My father doesn’t know about that change—one of many reasons he should have come back to us when he could. Still, I’ll tell him when I arrive.
The barricade is overseen by a couple of Queensguard, shiny and pompous in their royal blue uniforms. The trouble begins straightaway.
“I have business with the captain of theFreya,” I say, mustering as much courtesy as I know how.
The woman lofts one brow and makes a show of pulling a list out of her pocket. “Name?”
“Selly Walker, but it won’t be on there.”
“No?”
“No.” I can’t keep the irritation out of my tone, but I can already see how this is going to go. It’s a familiar feeling—watching something unspool ahead of me, yet unable to bite my tongue and find a way to fix it before it happens.
“I’m sorry to say that if your name’s not on the list, and you don’t have a crew armband, then this is as far as you come,” she informs me, not sounding even faintly sorry.
“Look, if one of you can tell the captain of theFreyathat Selly Walker—Stanton Walker’s daughter—is here, I’m sure—”
“Not here to run your errands, girl.” She cuts me off, looking me up and down, and I lift one hand to smooth my wind-mussed hair back, then wish I hadn’t. Her gaze lingers on the filthy knees of my trousers, a souvenir of my tumble off the carriage. Another thing I can thank His Highness for.
“Are you leaving,” she asks, as her companion finally turns his gaze away from the girls dancing on deck and studies me thoughtfully, “or are we escorting you?”
I bite my tongue so hard I’m surprised I don’t draw blood, sketch an elaborate bow worthy of the useless pieces of nobility up on deck, and turn away. If they won’t let me through, I’ll find another way.
As I walk down the dock, I check over my shoulder and find the Queensguard keeping a beady eye on me, but when I look back again, she’s lost interest.
I duck out of sight behind a long stack of crates waiting to be loaded. If I can pause near the barricades when the Queensguard aren’t looking, then with any luck I can slip past them and still reach theFreya.I need to get back closer to the barricade, though, so I’m ready to move.
I squash myself between two crates and pop out of the tiny space like a cork from a bottle, straight into something—someone—who stumbles back in turn and throws their arms around me to keep the pair of us upright. Our eyes lock as we steady ourselves, and I realize I’ve ended up in his embrace.
He’s a boy about my age, with warm brown skin that matches the golden sandstone of Kirkpool, like he’s a part of the city itself. Brown eyes dance beneath fashionably tousled black hair, and he has the sort of easy smile that says he knows just how handsome he is.
I hate that kind of smile.
“At last,” he says cheerfully, apparently unconcerned about having a sailor crash into him without warning. “I thought you’d never get here.”
I stare at him as I recover my breath, a little bit distracted by his face. He has unfairly long eyelashes.
His mouth twitches as if something’s amusing him—me, presumably—and that’s enough to snap me back to myself. I plant one hand on his chest and push him backward as I step out of his hold.
“I don’t know who you are, but I don’t have time for you,” I mutter. “What the hells are you doing hiding behind a bunch of crates?”
“Well, I heard you were going to be here,” the mystery boy replies without missing a beat, politely not pointing out that I am also hiding behind a bunch of crates.
I can’t figure out what he is. He’s dressed like he’s from the docks—shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, black suspenders, and dark brown trousers—but his white shirt is far too clean, the fabric on those trousers too good, and he sounds too fancy. A palace servant, perhaps, trying to blend in down here?
I can’t afford a delay, annoyingly handsome or otherwise, so with one last look at him, I shove past and reach for the top edge of the nearest crate. I grip, heave, and haul myself up on top of it, no doubt forcing him to dodge my kicks as I scrabblefor purchase. I’ll find out soon enough if he’s going to raise the alarm.
