Page 4 of Stealing Tink

I guess even the servants on this ship can’t put themselves in the shoes of a prisoner.

Since all I have to work with is body language, I square my shoulders and move quietly through the kitchen, throwing open pantry doors with as much authority as I can muster.

“Won’t find her in any of those,” the cook insists.

A moment later, another guard bursts into the kitchen. He takes one look at me, and I’m sure I’m done for. But then he says, “Good. This area’s already covered. I’ll check the starboard annex.”

I make a mental note not to go anywhere near the starboard annex.

Before leaving, he barks at the kitchen staff, “Well, get back to work! We don’t stop being hungry just because there’s a prisoner loose!”

The staff scrambles to obey, pots and pans clattering once more.

“I’ll tell you one last time,” the head cook says. “The prisoner’s not down here. But if you’re just going to get in the way, check the wine cellar and see for yourself.”

She gestures toward a door, and I step inside. I’m scrambling for a way to get her out of here, but then she grumbles something about my presence distracting her staff and leaves.

Complaints aside, at least she’s left me alone.

The wine cellar seems to double as a storage room for extra supplies, including uniforms. I glance toward the still-ajar door to make sure no one’s watching, then coax the door closed before I snatch a servant’s uniform from a hook on the wall.

It’s even harder getting the armor off than it was getting it on. Why anyone would design clothing that fastens between the shoulder blades is beyond me. I like to think of myself as fairly flexible, but it takes far longer than I’d like before the breastplate finally comes free.

By the time I’m dressed in the server’s attire, I’ve practically sweated through it. I can only hope that anyone who notices will assume it’s nerves about the escaped prisoner. Or condensation from standing over a pot all day. That would work too.

I smooth the apron, which is also too small for my frame, then tug the server’s bonnet over my head. Thankfully, my hair is cropped short, so I don’t have to worry about tucking it up.

Once the pouch with John’s tiles is securely tucked away in a pocket at my hip, I ease the door open and survey the kitchen. No one’s paying attention to the wine cellar. The guard’s barked orders seem to have shifted everyone’s focus from me to the punishment they’ll face if dinner isn’t ready on time. The bustle of clanging pots and sizzling pans lets me slip from the cellar unnoticed. Even the cook is too busy scolding one of her underlings for burning the pheasant while everyone was distracted by, and I quote, “that stoic guard who couldn’t be bothered to speak to us.”

Okay, that one stings a little.

On my way out, I snatch a tray with a covered dish off the counter. I have no idea where it’s meant to go, but if I’ve learned anything in my years of staying unnoticed, it’s that people rarely question someone whose hands are busy. Besides, if anyone notices my hurried pace, they’ll assume I’m in a rush to deliver the food.

I pace down the hall, restraining myself from slipping into the longer, heavier stride of the guards. My instincts itch to run, to get out as fast as possible, but I force myself to look brisk, not panicked.

Several guards pass me without a second glance. Maybe I’ll have to invest in some more of these bonnets. They’re almost as good as an invisibility potion.

Once I turn the corner and am out of sight, I pull the map I lifted from the wine cellar from my pocket. My eyes trace a path toward the deck, but only as a last resort. I’ve no intention of heading anywhere near there. Not when they’ll be expecting me to try to jump overboard or steal a lifeboat.

My relatively accurate internal clock, of which I am exceedingly (and likely irrationally) proud, informs me I’ve been free for about fifteen minutes. Plenty of time for the Nomad’s lackeys to swarm the deck.

Once I’ve memorized my intended path, I tuck the map back into my apron and set off.

There was a time when, trying to go unnoticed, I would keep my head down. But I learned the hard way that nothing draws attention faster than someone clearly trying to evade attention. So now, when I pass guards, I keep my posture straight and my movements purposeful. If one glances my way, I offer a polite nod or a quick smile, though I keep it hurried, dismissive.

I’ve just reached the corridor leading to my destination when a passing guard holds out his hand to stop me.

“Prisoner got free this afternoon,” he says. “She’s still disguised as one of our own. You seen any female guards pass this way?”

I let my eyes go wide, hoping he’ll perceive me as timid. I shake my head, grateful that his question only requires a yes or no.

“Very well. Alert someone if that changes, or if you see anything suspicious.”

I nod and move to scurry off, but his hand shoots out again, catching my shoulder. “I haven’t seen you around before,” he says, his voice dropping, suddenly deeper. “You new? What am I saying? Of course you are. I would’ve noticed you before otherwise.”

Scratch that comment I made earlier about buying more of these bonnets.

I pause just long enough for my flaring nostrils to settle back into their resting position, then turn back to him with what I hope is a shy smile.