-Arshtat-

Solar Year 420

Arshtat saw her face reflected in the marble tiles as she padded down the corridor, creeping along the side with a hand brushing against the wall. Voices carried from the intersection ahead, where the palace's great hall loomed near. With each step, those mumbled words became clearer in her ears.

"That is not what happened." Galleon's voice.

Arshtat pressed up against a column and peered out. Her heart fluttered with excitement. She bit her lip, tossed her oversized sleeve to brush hair from her eyes, and then padded across the corridor. She slid the last few steps into the shadows between a pair of fluted columns. The marble cooled her cheek as she peered out into the great hall.

Galleon and Jumana stood at the entrance to the antechamber leading up to the great hall. Their backs, both clad in the black and gold of the Queen's Knights, were turned to Arshtat, but she could see their faces in profile. Jumana's eyes bulged, and her lips kept twitching. Arshtat thought she looked very upset. Neither of them seemed aware of the girl hiding at the mouth of the adjoining corridor.

"Don't be so naïve," Jumana said. "The boy had no reason to touch her, much less…" She pursed her lips and shook her head before deciding on, "Molest her!"

Arshtat edged closer, and leaned against the pillar. The conversation confused her a bit, but that didn't bother her. As long as they didn't spot her, she was happy. In a moment of daring, she leaned out into the corridor and blew a raspberry at the pair. She pulled back, and held her breath.

"I have seen it before," Galleon said. He went on as if he'd seen nothing. "Sailors of the Island Nations do the same for comrades who've swallowed water." He sounded thoughtful, or curious.

Or oblivious! Arshtat wrapped arms around her body to stop from shaking with the muffled giggles. They hadn't seen a thing! Content with her coup, Arshtat snuggled up against the column and tucked in her legs to listen. Now she wondered what they were talking about.

Something happened in Hershville, but her head had gotten all foggy since she woke up the next morning. She remembered water, and the taste of salt, and the clouds and the sun overhead, but it was all mixed up. She couldn't see the memories, even when she squeezed her eyes shut. Mother said it was the water spirits pounding on her head. She wished they'd stop pounding.

Jumana pressed the issue. "To other men?"

"Aye."

Jumana shook her head with such violence that her thick braids flopped around. "No. Your eyes must have deceived you."

"Perhaps," Galleon said. He paused to think his words through before adding, "But the boy was a child, and I've known boys to be more innocent than that. What he did, I believe he did to save the Princess' life."

Arshtat's ears pricked up at that. She gaped, and reached up her sleeve to stroke the polished wooden handle of the Federation Fleet knife tucked up there.

Jumana did not respond to Galleon's statement. She turned on her heel and her footsteps rang out through the great hall. She was out of sight in moments. Galleon put his fists on his waist and watched her go. After a dozen heartbeats, he followed in her wake.

A hand clasped Arshtat's shoulder. She yelped, gave a start, and turned to see a wide grin staring back at her.

"Father!"

Kauss Barows had been as quiet as a cat as he snuck up on her. She hadn't heard a thing. Now he hunched down beside her and stroked hair from her forehead.

"What's this, Pixie? You're hiding in a corner?"

Arshtat pouted and shook her head. "I wasn't hiding. I was—"

Kauss gave her a long look. "I know precisely what you were up to, Pixie. You're such a scoundrel. Are you sure you're a princess? You seem more like a mouse to me, the way you slip out from under your minders' eyes and scurry from wall to wall." He plucked at her sleeve. "Mother will be upset if she sees how you've gotten your dress dirty again."

Arshtat flailed her arms. "I'm not a mouse!"

Kauss broke a smile, but it was gone as quick as it came. He nodded. "Not a mouse, you say?" He craned his neck and looked her over. "Ah. Forgive me; you're right." He pushed a finger against her nose, making it scrunch up against her face. "More like a piglet."

Arshtat gaped.

Her father burst out laughing. Arshtat puffed her cheeks and glared at him. When it became obvious that he was not going to stop laughing, she turned her eyes from him in protest. But he pulled her from the ground with a grunt and cradled her against his chest. She squirmed, but he tickled her into submission.

"Look, Pixie. Here's the deal. You're a crafty little mouse, but you leave a trail of cheese crumbs that any cat could follow. If you want to go unnoticed, you have to make sure that no one realizes you're missing." He settled her on his arm. "Otherwise people will come looking for you."

Arshtat pursed her lips. "Then… I could hide even from you, Father?"

Kauss made his face blank. "No. That's not going to happen. No one can hide from me."

Arshtat tried to pout, but was forced to smile as he tickled her chin. She giggled.

Kauss' eyes widened. He snatched his hand up her sleeve and pulled out the knife. He held it up out of her reach and turned it over in his hand. "Well, well. What's this, Pixie? I thought the fey folk detested cold iron."

Arshtat faced his stern look and did not shrink. "I found it," she said. "It's mine."

"This is Federation Fleet equipment. Standard issue. I see… But a princess isn't supposed to play with such dangerous toys."

"Please, Father, give it back! I'll be careful. I promise."

Kauss smacked his lips and shook his head. He dangled the knife just outside her reach. "We'll have to talk to Lord Ardashir about this."

Arshtat shrank away from his grip. Grandfather! His scoldings were the worst. Somehow, even without saying anything, he could make her feel terrible. She opened her mouth to protest, but she could see in father's eyes that the matter was set. But there was a smile on his lips. Maybe she wasn't in as much trouble as she thought.

-Ferid-

Solar Year 433

The rhythmic groaning of the bulkheads was the first sound that reached Ferid's ears. His eyes fluttered open, and he stared up at a lantern hung from a hook in the ceiling. It swayed with the ship's motions, casting a light that made the shadows dance between the timber supports down in the hold.

Ferid dragged hands through sloshing bilge water and pulled his back up against the bulkhead. He tasted salt, and coughed. Seawater trickled down his jaw and out of his nose.

"Lieutenant," Yahr said. The man scrambled over on all four, pulling out a canteen and pressing the lid to Ferid's lips.

Ferid gripped the canteen and gulped down water. He drank enough to wash the taste of the sea out of his mouth, and then let up.

"Where are we?" he croaked. He let out a groan, and massaged the back of his aching head.

Yahr settled back, leaning arms on his knees. "We're on a floating pile of driftwood named the 'Morning Glory'." He rapped his knuckles against the hull. "The Armesians call it a ship."

Ferid grunted, and slid his back up against the wet planks. He leaned forward, stretched out his back and arms, and looked around the hold.

Georg slumped against the bulkhead on the other end. His head lolled against his shoulder, but his chest was rising and falling with each breath. Bandages wrapped tight round his shoulder, chest, and hand. Yahr had made the best out of the meager resources given to them.

Water seeped through chinks in the hull's caulking, gathering in a slow drip in the bilge. By the pitch and roll of the ungainly vessel, and the sounds of the wood groaning, Ferid guessed that they were in the rear hold. Right up against the stern, and close to the water.

"What about the others?"

Yahr grimaced. "They took the girl to a room in the sterncastle. Same thing with the woman—the bodyguard. They seemed surprised to see her, and not because they happened to like the way she filled out her shirt, if you know what I mean."

Ferid grunted. "She was Armesian. I wonder what relation she has to this clan."

Yahr shrugged, rising to his feet and loping over to check on Georg. "No telling. But they handled the boy like he was sunken treasure hauled from the ocean floor."

More than the woman's fate, Ferid wondered at the relation between the Armesian boy and their captors. He didn't know much about the politics of New Armes, but the boy was as likely a pawn in their schemes as a beloved child thought lost.

"It was arranged for them to find him here. Harwan set this up. But not alone, I'll bet." Was Harwan swimming in the same school as their captors? Had they been trawled into a waiting net, like tuna being driven by Kanagian divers?

"I'll bet you're right, lieutenant." Yahr glanced at the door into the hold, flourished a hand, and said, "It's locked, by the way. Not sure how well. I was getting lonely in here 'fore you woke up."

Ferid choked on a chuckle. "Charming."

Yahr ran his sleeve over Georg's forehead, swabbing away water. "The marines weren't too pleased with us. They looked like they wanted to keelhaul us right here and now. But the Admiral wouldn't allow it." He grimaced. "Can't blame 'em. We did gut a couple of their guys, and Georg here took down one of their bigwigs, I gather."

"If you want to break up a dance early, bring Georg," Ferid muttered. Glad as he was for waking up with his throat intact, Ferid wouldn't bank on the admiral's goodwill. The fact of the matter was that they were captives aboard an enemy vessel, and the best they could hope for would be a lucrative ransom. But the Albatross would deny their existence, so they'd get nothing there. That left the prospects of hard labor in the salt mines, languishing in some forgotten prison keep, or a rendezvous with the headsman's axe. Ferid had a feeling that neither of his comrades would appreciate those options any more than he did. The ship wasn't moving at the time—he wondered at that; for what reason were they remaining?—but it would soon pick up wind in its sails, and with each moment lost to inaction, the Morning Glory would plow through another wave and came one yard closer to Armesian waters.

Ferid shook his head. "You still got a knife, Yahr?"

Yahr felt over his sides before nodding. "I think so, Lieutenant." He coughed and tossed his head to sweep wet silver hair from his face. His face wasn't showing much of anything, but Ferid could read the lad well enough. He was rattled.

Ferid nodded soberly, and stood up. He felt woozy, and nearly stumbled before grabbing a support beam with his hand. No weapons, but at least their hands were unbound.

"We'll catch our breath while we wait for Georg to finish up with his beauty sleep." He fixed his eyes on the door. "Then we'll go exploring."

"Sounds great, lieutenant." Yahr grinned. "I've always wanted to get a taste of the famous New Armes hospitality."

-Arshtat-

Arshtat jerked awake, gasping for air. She had to breach the surface. She had to breathe! She flailed her arms and clawed for a grip. She dug her hands into damp cloth. Her lungs filled with air.

Arshtat sat upright in the bed. "You—"

No one heard her. She was alone, and inside an unfamiliar cabin. The Raven's Revenge was at the bottom of the ocean, so this was…?

She studied the sparse furnishings. Tapestries draped from the walls, showing scenes of clansmen engaged in hunting or warfare, or arranged in obedient postures surrounding clan chiefs. A bundle of colorful garments lay neatly folded near the door.

Armesian tapestries, and Armesian clothes. The attacking vessel. Of course! She went cold. She had barrelled down that hold with no thought for the consequences. And she couldn't even swim! What was she thinking? But she was alive.

And then it hit her like a fist in the gut: Sialeeds was gone. And what had happened to Jumana?

Arshtat shifted, and the bedclothes writhed beneath her. She wrinkled her nose. Her wet clothes plastered her skin, and had soaked the bed. She rubbed at her arms, and shivered.

She had to assume that she was a captive. Outside that door, a marine would be posted. Or more than one. But no one waited inside, and no one had touched her clothes. She felt for her daggers, and found each leather-strapped sheath still hiding beneath the damp cloth. Two blades had gone to the bottom of the sea with the Raven's Revenge, but the others remained in place. Including her most precious blade, hidden near her heart. So they hadn't searched her.

Arshtat let out a sigh of relief and crept out of the bed. She tiptoed over to the bundle of clothes by the bed, leaned over, and peeked through the keyhole.

The shifting leg of a marine blotted out the light. She heard the man stifle a yawn.

Escape seemed inadvisable. She could climb out the latticed windows through which the morning light streamed into the cabin, but what then? Even had she been a strong swimmer, she wouldn't be able to reach land. She needed a boat. And though she'd just about gotten her sea legs, the task of sneaking through a ship and stealing passage on some rowboat lashed to the deck seemed insurmountable to her mind. No, she needed more information. She would do what she did best. She would negotiate.

Arshtat bent to rifle through the clothes. She found a baggy pair of trousers whose pale rosy shade of figs clashed against the apricot-hued loose tunic meant to be tied at the front with a wide cloth belt. She realized to her relief that she had been given the garments of a man, and not the skimpy things she'd seen Armesian girls traipse around in, leaving the belly and most of the legs bared, like a Raftfleet child playing in the Feitas. There was also a feathered red beret, and beneath the garments she found a pair of high-strapped sandals.

Arshtat toed the bundle out of place, padded to the side of the door, and slowly, silently pulled a low cabinet into place against the edge of the door. If someone tried to swing the door open, she would know in time. With an afterthought, she pulled the belt from the bundle and hung it from the door-knob, concealing the keyhole, before she shed her wet clothes and tossed them on the bed.

She studied the tapestries more closely as she hiked up the trousers. Warriors sprang into motion on the weave, stilted, rigid figures, wielding long-spears and shields, and garments in shades of red and rose.

The Madra Clan, unless she missed her guess. In whose hands rested the burgeoning fleet called the New Armes Western Marine Corps. She wrapped the sleeveless tunic round her chest and fetched the belt to tie it in place over her stomach. The garment hung over the trousers, and the end of the belt rested near her feet. She felt several sizes too small in these soldier's clothes.

Arshtat tied her hair into a quick ponytail and slanted the feathered beret onto her forehead. She pushed the cabinet aside, and swung the door open.

The marine lunged back, clearly startled. His spear lowered, but then flicked back up as the man caught himself. His cheeks flushed momentarily.

"I wish to speak with the captain," Arshtat said. She peered past the man.

The morning light glared against the clean-scrubbed planks on deck. Seagulls laughed, flying low across the glittering waves of the calm sea. She had emerged from a cabin in the sterncastle, and looked ahead to the two-masted rigging, in which square sails were furled up and roped to the yard by sailors clambering through the rigging and scuttling down ratlines.

So they were staying put. She wondered at that.

The marine seemed taken aback, and stared at her. "The captain… ah, he's— You're supposed to—" The man swallowed, and then said, "Come with me."

The marine stumbled into an awkward walk before her. Arshtat's sandals tapped against the planks as she followed in the man's wake. She felt the eyes of the crew. Few men were topside at this hour, but she counted eight marines and perhaps half again as many sailors. She reasoned that there would be at least as many men resting in bunks and hammocks below deck. Perhaps twice as many. It was a bulky ship, though only two-masted. She would ask Ferid about that. If he were alive. She had to prepare herself for the possibility that she was the last survivor. She felt a sudden chill.

The captain's cabin was marked by an ornate red-lacquered door. The marine rapped his knuckles against the surface and waited for an answer. Then he pushed the door open and showed Arshtat inside.

She squared her shoulders and held the beret in place, then glided across the threshold.

Sunlight slanted through latticed windows, casting a bright light upon a wide desk facing the door. Charts were rolled out on the tabletop, weighted down by a brass compass that reflected the glare of the sun. The rest of the cabin was shaded, and there in the dim light sat the captain upon a bed of cushions. His eyes focused on a knee-high table upon which a game of Scales was arrayed. He looked up when Arshtat approached.

"You're a fish out of water," he said in a thickly accented Falenan.

"'Fresh or salt, in every situation, we are the fish best suited to the water'," Arshtat quoted in Armesian. She saw a bunch of cushions on the opposite side of the table. "I do not know whether to thank you or curse you for this," she said, and took a seat.

The marine gasped. He raced towards her, shouting, "Cur! Stand in the presence of the Admiral!"

He was halfway to Arshtat when the Admiral held up a hand to halt him. "Let her sit," he said in his own language. He looked her up and down, and his brows rose. When he spoke, his voice was tense. "You speak Armesian. And you know your philosophers. Impressive. I am Admiral Jusuan Mantal of the Madra Clan. You may call me Admiral Mantal."

She nodded her head. "I will. You may call me Alzhara, admiral. I have no titles worthy of mention."

The man's lips twitched in a hidden smile. "Is that so?" he leaned forward, and asked, "You seem to have many talents. Do you also play Scales?"

Arshtat lowered her eyes to the checkered board. "At times," she said. The board was adapted to a life at sea, and shallow sockets were carved into the board to hold the painted wooden figurines even in tumultuous waters. The pieces had been moved from the original positions, suggesting that a game was in progress. The placement indicated that it was her turn to move.

She plucked the carved representation of the True Water Rune and placed it three steps closer to the Circle.

Mantal's eyes widened for a moment. He reached out towards the Rune of Life and Death, but hesitated. A surprised look spread on his face as he met her eyes. "That's an interesting move."

The cabin's walls creaked as the ship swayed in the gentle waves. As the Admiral's indecipherable eyes fixed on her, Arshtat once again felt glad for having conquered her seasickness.

Mantal flicked the fan in his hand open and waved it at the marine standing by the doorway. "Leave us."

Without a word, the man filtered out of the room. Arshtat heard him latch the door closed, but did not take her eyes from the Admiral. Once alone, the man pulled the puffy red beret from his head and raked his fingers through his graying black hair. He set the hat down on his lap and his eyes grew hard. "The abduction of a chief's heir is a serious offense. Even worse for you when we find ourselves on Armesian soil."

Arshtat raised an eyebrow. "I have partaken in no abduction. Neither have any of my current companions. Is this in relation to the boy; Shula?" She motioned at the board. "It is your turn to move."

Mantal blinked, and his eyes darted to her face before fixing on the board. He slowly licked his lips, searching the board as he said, "Shula Valya is heir to the Valya family." He plucked the Dragon Rune and shifted it one step back, then looked her in the eye.

"Your move."

A defensive move. Conservative.

Valya. A family important to the Madra Clan, if her memory served. Arshtat circled a finger against her cheek for a long moment before she realized what she was doing and stopped it. She leaned back, and sat upright. She suppressed a twinge of annoyance. There was no reason to be nervous. The admiral would see reason.

"It is no matter. The boy will inform you of your mistake." She buoyed a finger against the Bright Shield Rune. "I have reason to believe that he will show us some gratitude for the parts we played in this tasteless fiasco." She leap-frogged the Bright Shield Rune over the True Fire Rune.

Mantal leaned back and wrapped his burly arms around his chest. He shook his head, staring at the Scales board. "Indeed Shula has spoken on your behalf. But he, alas, is but a boy, and doesn't know the wiles of men. Or women. Who's to say that you weren't involved? That your timely 'rescue' of the boy is not a ploy to save your hides?" He flashed a humorless smile, and gestured at her. "Please, tell me more about my serendipitous guest."

She had to tread lightly. Falena and New Armes had never been on good terms. Their close borders inspired many gnashing teeth on either side, and the peace they now enjoyed was tenuous at best. If the admiral found out her true identity as a princess of Falena, the Madra Clan could be counted on to take advantage of that fact. Even with the best of intentions, such a charged situation could lead to war.

"Your guest," Arshtat said with a smirk, "Is Alzhara Tawydd. Daughter to a merchant out of Estrise."

"Why were you on the Raven's Revenge?"

Arshtat adjusted the fit of the belt. "My sister and I were traveling for the Gaien Dukedom along with our two minders. One of whom now, I hope, is also a guest on your ship."

Mantal reached out for the Rune of Change. He plucked it from the board and set it down between the True Wind Rune and the Dragon Rune. Then he leaned his elbow on a puffy pillow. "Two minders? Where is the other? And what of your sister?"

Arshtat's stomach was in knots. Where was Sialeeds? Was she safe? She had considered omitting her sister from her story, but she realized that if she were to mount a rescue, she may well need Mantal's sympathy, if not his cooperation.

Arshtat frowned. "She was taken by the same person who abducted Shula Valya."

"Oh? And that person is…?"

"Harwan Sharoum. My sister's minder. A traitor."

Mantal rubbed at his beard, and slowly nodded. "What sort of goods does your father deal in?"

Arshtat felt a measure of pride in not flinching at the question. "Armesian spices, cloth, salt," she said smoothly. She shifted the True Wind Rune two steps to her right. "But he's trying to break into the Island Nations wine trade. That's where the money is these days."

Mantal pulled the sword-shaped figurine representing the Rune of Night from the board and placed it adjacent to the Circle. He pursed his lips. "What kind of Armesian spices?"

Arshtat smiled. All those times in the Senate when she'd wanted to let her mind wander into daydream instead of focusing on the drone of reports: finances, policies, judgments… and trade goods. She was glad for having resisted the temptation, now.

"Carom seed, cinnamon, coriander, saffron, and fennel, mostly. Though admittedly the saffron harvest has been of limited success, lately." She scanned the board, and noted the configuration of the pieces. "Ah! And your move frees the Sun Rune." She clapped her hands, then daintily leaned in to switch the positions of the Sun and Circle Runes.

The game was over.

Mantal widened his eyes. His hand jerked towards the board, but stopped over the figurine, fingers clenching. He pressed his lips together, and stared at the board. The Admiral was silent for a time, and then leaned over the table. Figurines clacked against the board as he began to reset the pieces.

Mantal's lips twitched. Something dark had passed over his eyes, but it was gone. "Your minder is an Armesian woman?"

"Jumana."

Mantal nodded, hesitating in the placement of two pieces. "She has yet to wake."

Arshtat leaned in on the table. "Can I see her?"

"After I have spoken with her."

Arshtat leaned back. Yes, that would be acceptable. She had stuck to the story her father had drilled into her, and Jumana knew it well. She would not betray her.

"I must find my sister. What do you intend to do with me?"

Mantal furrowed his brows. "I too would wish to find this 'Harwan.' But several things trouble me."

"Please tell me."

He scratched at his beard. "You have the most curious traveling companions."

Arshtat slanted her head. "You meet the most fascinating people on a ship."

"That is true. Life on the sea tends to bring out the true nature of men… and women." Mantal leaned back and clasped his hands over his brown-and-gold belt. When his eyes rose to meet hers, she saw danger in them. "Did you realize," he said, scanning the carved figurines on the board, "That your newfound companions are members of a group known as the Albatross?" He looked up. "Federation Fleet spies."

Arshtat reeled back as if struck. She was gaping. She shut her mouth and frowned. The genuine nature of her surprise may well serve as proof of her ignorance, but she felt a twinge of irritation at hiding her emotions so poorly.

They were little more than boys! How could they be spies?

"Not to mention," the Admiral said, "That in the confusion surrounding the boarding, several of my men were killed."

"In self-defense, admiral," Arshtat said. "As you said, there was some confusion."

"Nonetheless, you now wear the clothes of a dead man. And in light of Shula Valya's abduction, such acts could easily be misunderstood."

Arshtat tasted bile. So that was what this was about. Who had that man been? She did not dare ask. She had to focus on the positive.

"My concern is for my sister." She drew up in her seat, and gestured with the palms of her hands. "Do you truly believe that I am part of this plot?"

"When it comes to the agents of the Albatross, young lady, I have come to expect anything. You carry yourself well. Almost too well. How can I dismiss outright any notion of your involvement?" He shook his head. "Impossible. So you see, even with Shula Valya's testimony, I have reason to believe that you or your companions are somehow involved in his abduction. I am not a man who believes in too many coincidences."

Arshtat drew a deep breath. "How can we convince you?"

Mantal shook his head. He had finished arranging the pieces, and now stared at the Scales board. "To discourage crime, we must be merciless against offenders. You will be taken to New Armes, where you will stand trial. We will need time to find the truth."

Arshtat sagged in her seat. Time Sialeeds did not have.

-Ferid-

Georg made a sudden start, and broke into a fit of coughs. He shivered and sat up against the wall. His eyes flickered open to look out over the hold. They wouldn't quite focus.

"Lieutenant," he croaked.

Ferid rose from his knees. "Look who decided to join us."

Yahr hurried over to Georg. He had a silly grin on his face; equal parts mirth and relief. "You're awake?"

Georg worked his mouth to moisten his lips. He dropped his head to the side to get a better look at Yahr crouching beside him. "What kind of question is that?"

Yahr shrugged. "Just idle words, Georgie." He checked the bandage on the boy's shoulder.

Georg hissed, and pushed Yahr's hands away. "That hurts like hell."

Yahr smirked, but held his hands up and backed off.

Ferid ducked below a beam and walked up to them. He nudged Georg's knee with his boot. "Can you move it? Is everything working?"

Georg grimaced. He stretched out his limbs and winced. He looked down and discovered the bandages wrapped round his chest. "Right, that too." He shook his head, and made to stand, shaky hands clutching at the bulkhead. "I'm fine, lieutenant."

Ferid snorted. "You look like you just wrestled an orca."

Georg stretched out, stumbled back, and caught himself on the bulkhead. "You should see the orca. I gave it such a pounding, its children will be born black and white."

Yahr scratched at his head. "They're all black and white."

Georg shrugged. "See?"

Ferid cracked his neck both ways and stretched out his sore joints, then paced over to the door. He listened at the frame, and heard nothing. Then he bent to peer through the keyhole. He saw the central hold beyond, lit by sunlight streaming in through a latticed hatch. The stairs below the hatchway glowed in the light. Barrels and crates were lashed to the bulkheads in the shadows to the sides of the hold. There were no marines outside.

Georg stumbled up next to him, rubbing at his brow. He looked around, seeing the hold for the first time. "I thought the ship sank," he muttered.

"Don't worry, it did," Ferid said. "We're working on the next one, now."

Georg's lips twitched into a quick smile. "Who?"

Yahr slapped a hand down on Georg's hale shoulder. "New Armes Western Marine Corps. How do you like that?"

Georg gave him a silent look.

"The Admiral," Ferid added.

Georg blinked, then looked between the two of them. His eyes then focused on the door. "We're locked up."

Ferid shrugged. "You were napping. We had no one to sweet-talk them."

Yahr grinned. "Just as well. Georg always hates himself the morning after. I'm not listening to that again."

Georg swatted him across the head, but Yahr recoiled and kept grinning.

"Enough of that," Ferid said. "We're taking a look around. There's no one outside. I'll just—"

There was a knock on the door. Low, hesitant.

Ferid froze up. He bent his knees and slowly leaned down to squint through the keyhole. He saw another eye peering back at him.

"Hello?" said a voice in Armesian from the other side of the door.

"Who's that?" Ferid asked.

A moment's hesitation, and then the voice said, "Shula Valya."

Ferid raised his brows. The Armesian boy they'd rescued from the Raven's Revenge? He looked at the others.

Ferid turned back to the keyhole. "What are you doing here?"

The boy remained silent for a time, and then said, "I don't know. I wanted to see you."

Ferid leaned his forearm against the door. "Hey kid, you know we didn't have anything to do with the people who took you away, right?"

"Yes."

"Good." Ferid stood up and leaned his shoulder to the door. "You wouldn't happen to have the key to the door, would you?"

"No."

"Can you get us out of here, somehow?"

The boy didn't speak for a time. Ferid rapped his knuckles against the door. "You still there, Shula?"

"Yes," the muffled voice said. "I don't know."

"Don't worry about it, Shula." But damn, that would've been smooth as beach sand. To waltz out of here and untie this whole messy knot in one swift stroke.

"Are these people your friends, Shula?"

"Yes. They're my clansmen."

Ferid grunted. They probably weren't out to hurt the boy, then. But who knew? Politics were complicated at times. For the boy's sake, he hoped he was someone important. Or maybe the other way around.

"Listen, Shula, you'd better—"

There came a shout from outside the door, followed by footsteps pounding towards them, making the floor of the hold creak.

"Get away from there!" someone said. Like Shula, the voice spoke Armesian.

The scuffle of footsteps sounded outside. Someone approaching and someone leaving. Then the door shook. The man outside switched to a thickly accented Falenan. "Get back, you dogs!"

Ferid stepped away from the door.

The voice switched back to Armesian and spoke in low, hushed tones. "Guard this door. Make sure they don't try anything."

Ferid cursed inwardly. He turned to the others.

Yahr mouthed, "What?"

Ferid flashed a hand signal: 'Guard.' He followed it with a series of rude gestures.

Things just got a whole lot more complicated.

-Mantal-

Mantal looked at the woman sitting on the edge of the lower of two bunk beds propped up against the side of the cramped sailors' cabin evacuated to hold her.

Jumana was unmistakably Armesian. The sun had beaten her skin into a leathery texture and had given it the burnished coppery hue of the Riya—southeastern tribes populating the desert wastelands across the Amayan Foothills. Jumana, like most Riyans he'd seen, was a woman of hard lines and angles. Relentless heat and constant toil and migration across the rock-strewn hamada sucked the curves right out of the women, and made them stiff and sinewy. The Riya dwelled in a harsh land, and had become a harsh people. Reckless barbarians. Difficult to deal with, or involve in the matters of the New Armes Kingdom. Tax collectors seldom made the perilous trek over the Amayan Foothills to levy tribute for the King, prefering instead to remain closer to Muaddha and its opium dens and brothels.

How a woman of the Riya had turned up as the bodyguard of a Falenan emissary—or spy—Mantal could but wonder. But seeing the woman brought back memories.

Admiral Jusuan Mantal had worked his way up through the ranks of the New Armes navy before there even was a navy. The son of a minor family within the Madra Clan, Mantal had begun his career as a front-line soldier in the blessedly rural Eastern Desert Corps, crushing scorpions underfoot and sleeping through guard duty at forgotten trade posts along the spice route. Half of those years he'd spent in sick bed, recovering from one desert malady or the other, and the rest of the time he'd either parched or drunk off his ass. And not a pretty woman in sight. He had seen the Riya and their blasted land, and he'd loathed it.

At the age of seventeen he had lost his father, his last surviving parent, to malaria, and he had returned west to become the head of a household which consisted of himself, a ramshackle hut in the slums of Kuwayya, and a flea-ridden camel with a lame leg. He'd sold both for enough rupees to purchase a dagger and a good pair of boots, and he'd went to sea on a merchant vessel.

Mantal had taken to life at sea like a fish to water—though he hated the taste of fish. He'd crawled through the holds like a bilge rat, bailing, caulking, and battening down goods until a timely death opened up a position on deck. A few years later, following a fierce storm and an encounter with Gaien privateers, he had found himself the acting captain of the Good Fortune, a weather-beaten junk with a badly caulked hull. One quashed mutiny and a return trip to Muaddha later, the merchant house had assigned him as proper captain of the vessel. The title came with two casks of complimentary rum that tasted like piss. His crew had quaffed it gladly.

When the Western Marine Corps was formed, Mantal had been recruited to serve as one of its first captains. Those days, there was little structure to things. New Armes had to build a marine corps from the ground up, with access to little outside expertise other than a widely distributed naval manual written by a Middleport native by the name of Schtolteheim Reinbach III. The book was as confusing a narrative as Mantal had ever seen, and in the chaotic years of trial and error that followed, he eventually threw the book to the sea's floor in a fit of rage. Things became simpler after that.

Five captains had aspired to the rank of admiral of the fleet. All of them were ambitious, belligerent men with little experience of a disciplined military life—Mantal included. The matter was decided during a conference held on neutral ground on a small island off the Salt Coast. A drunken brawl ensued, and Mantal stumbled out as the last man standing, clutching an arm with seven puncture wounds in one hand, and his bloody dagger in the other. The damn blade has snapped in the fight. Cheap, shoddy work. The camel had been worth more than that. But the boots still served him well.

Things had picked up after that. Mantal had found that, by chance, he made a serviceable admiral. Under his administration, the navy had gone from the laughingstock of the armed forces to a respected and effective military branch of the New Armes Kingdom. And the Madra Clan that once considered him and his family as little more than chattel now saw him as a hero. He'd even become something of a patriot in the intervening years.

But Mantal had never forgotten his years with the Eastern Desert Corps. He remembered the Riya. And he didn't like one bit that one of the desert rats showed up alongside a trio of Albatross spies and a Falenan girl with a face like bottled sunshine.

Mantal shifted in his seat, and worked loose the muscles in his left arm. The wounds had never healed quite right.

"Jumana. I'll spare you the embarrassment of asking your family name."

The woman's brow hung low. She cradled the bandage wrapped round her hand, and stared at him.

"Where is Alzhara?"

"She's come to no harm."

Jumana leaned forward. "Take me to her." She made to get out of the bed.

Mantal shook his head and motioned for her to remain seated.

Jumana plopped back down with a sullen frown on her lips.

Alzhara. Was that her real name? Mantal doubted it. He knew by now that he had been mistaken to presume the Falenan girl to be the most easily influenced. He had a hard time admitting it, but the way she had carried herself, proud but relaxed, eyes focused but showing no emotion, had unnerved him. She had acted as if she were conversing with an equal. As if it had been she who fished him out of the sea like a drowned rat! He'd reached for the minnows, and plucked a shark from the waters. But what a tantalizing shark. Who was that girl?

He had to get Jumana to talk. She would not be so sophisticated. She would reveal the identity of the Falenan girl, and from there, he could begin to piece together the puzzle.

Mantal glowered. "It's rare to see a woman of the Riya west of the Amayan Foothills."

"Not everyone thrives in the desert."

"You speak Armesian like a borderlander would. You've been a long time from New Armes."

Jumana shrugged. "I found the climate of Falena more to my liking."

"Enough dancing around," Mantal barked. He stood, planted hands on his belt, and drew himself up over the woman. "I spent three years in your rune-forsaken wasteland of a home. I know that Riyans don't separate from their home tribe unless they're exiled, and it takes a lot for a Riyan to get cast out." He scowled at her. "And I know that a Riyan would rather die of thirst than tell a lie, though you've no compunctions about killing or looting. I'll never understand your people, but I know how you work. That's the only reason I'm still alive."

Jumana held his eyes with a defiant stare through most of his speech, but towards the end she cast her face down and sagged against the bed.

Mantal studied her reaction and nodded to himself. He gestured with one hand as he said, "Are you going to tell me the truth?"

Jumana glanced up at him and snarled. Then her eyes wandered, and her shoulders shook as she sighed. She nodded slowly.

-Arshtat-

It took about five minutes for Arshtat's patience to break. She had been pacing back and forth down the length of the cabin, but now plopped down in a cushioned armchair and expelled her breath.

She hated sitting still. The cabin seemed to shrink by the moment, and her nerves were as taut as the tarred lines on deck. She cradled the armrests and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the creak of the wood. She was tired of that sound, too.

What game was Admiral Mantal playing at? The New Armes Western Marine Corps had no business this far to the north into Island Nations territorial waters, and their current position was, if Arshtat remembered the charts—and she was sure she did—closer to Falena than to New Armes. The Federation Fleet wouldn't look kindly on a visit from the Western Marine Corps this deep into their turf.

Which meant that Mantal had as important a purpose as there could be for coming here. The admiral wanted to give the impression that Shula Valya was that reason. Which would mean that Mantal had received word about the boy's capture and sailed to intercept his captors. But if that were true, the whole string of events seemed as tight a fit as she could imagine into the timeline. She traced the routes in her mind, imagining her fingers running over the embossed texture of the grand map that hung in the drawing room in the east wing of the palace, as they had when she was a child barely tall enough to stand tiptoe and reach the chart.

One week. The shortest route from any point in New Armes territorial waters to this point would take one week to sail. She was certain of that. And it made the whole notion fall apart: Serwid had been as bemused as she to find Shula Valya in the cabin. Harwan was a crafty little sand grub, but she doubted if he could hide the boy from the ship's own captain for a week or more. No, far more likely the switch that carried Sialeeds off the ship and planted Shula in that cabin had occurred within hours of the Morning Glory's arrival. And that meant that Mantal had been alerted of the boy's presence by none other than Harwan. As a disruption meant to waste time and throw them all off the trail, which in turn meant that Admiral Mantal was a bull lead by the horns.

The abduction of Shula Valya was problematic. As things stood, the admiral might infer that the crime had been carried out by Federation Fleet spies—though she had never heard of this 'Albatross' as he called it. Her own presence, a Falenan, was even more problematic. The clan chiefs of the New Armes Kingdom were both superstitious and belligerent. What words would those vipers whisper in the king's ear? And then there was Sialeeds. Harwan had said he intended to ransom her sister back to the royal family. But was that true? The abduction of Shula Valya seemed both an arduous and unnecessary feint. What if the two kidnappings were part of the same pattern—a pattern intended to fan the sparks of war between Falena and New Armes? Arshtat shivered at the thought.

Then there was Ferid. The Albatross. Federation Fleet spies. Arshtat did not believe in too many coincidences. Who stood to gain from a war on the Southern Continent? She wouldn't assume such subterfuge on the Island Nations' part, but she had to be open to the possibility.

Arshtat stood, and smoothed her trousers. She had to find out more. Admiral Mantal had suggested that she was welcome on deck if she wanted. She would test the truth of those words. There was such nice weather outside.

-Ferid-

First, Ferid would have to deal with the guard. To work under cover of darkness would have been preferable, but he didn't have much choice. The Morning Glory was dead in the water for now, and Ferid guessed that the admiral was waiting to rendezvous with another ship. Idling in Federation Fleet waters for too long was a risky business, and through testimony given by captured Armesian marines and sailors, the Albatross had pieced together a picture of Admiral Mantal as a man of capability. The admiral was no fool. Soon enough he would leave these waters, and make for home. With whatever unwilling passengers still stuck in the hold. And once that happened, it could be too late to act. He didn't know the waters around the horn of New Armes nearly as well as his own, and it would be doubtful work to escape if it came to that. He had to figure out where they were going, and fast.

Which left the guard. The post had changed after roughly an hour, and a new man now paced about outside the door. During that time, Ferid had noted no others in the hold, nor did anyone seem to inspect it through the hatchway. It seemed a safe bet.

Ferid reached into his sleeve and felt for the knobby protrusion near the inside of the bicep. He ripped the fabric and pulled out a two-inch-long cylinder of polished bronze. The cylinder twisted at the middle and popped open, revealing a rolled-up piece of parchment. As he unrolled the tiny scroll, the glyphs embedded in the parchment flared into life.

Albatross agents seldom carried runes due to the difficulty in hiding them if discovered. But they had something almost as good, and more subtle besides. A dozen squiggly signs marked that wrinkled parchment, each symbol pulsing emerald green with a magic born of the True Runes. The power of a Wind Rune, transcribed onto paper by a rune sage.

Ferid pressed the parchment against his open palm and began to trace the glyphs with his finger. The symbols faded beneath the warmth of his skin, and sparks of green light built in his hand. When his finger passed over the final glyph, the parchment withered and smoldered, buckling with heat and then turning to fine ash in the palm of his hand. Above it, dozens of motes of green light danced like active fireflies.

Ferid padded up to the door and kneeled before the keyhole. He waited until the guard outside reached down to scratch his leg. Then he held his open palm to the keyhole and blew at the motes.

Dust and motes of light plumed, surging through the keyhole or racing along the surface of the door and through the sliver-thin gap in the doorframe. A moment passed, and then the guard sneezed. He muttered something under his breath, and then yawned.

Ferid pressed his ear against the door and counted the heartbeats. Five, ten, fifteen… twenty.

Boots and limbs rattled against the wood outside as the man crumpled to the floor.

Ferid turned to Yahr. "Alright. Work your magic."

Yahr flourished a lockpick from his sleeve and sauntered up to the door with an intense grin. He pressed a palm and his cheek to the door and set to work on the lock. The moving tumblers clicked like a metallic beetle trying to escape the aperture. Then with a final clack and a rustle of iron, Yahr pulled the lockpick from the door and backed off, gesturing at it.

"It's all yours, lieutenant." He felt for the sheath hidden in his breeches. "You should take the dagger…"

"No. It'll be better if I don't have it, in case I get caught."

"True Runes forbid…"

Ferid pushed open the door and stepped over the unconscious form of the marine. The man lay at an angle, pushed up against the corner by the door with his head leaning against the bulkhead. His eyes were closed, and his mouth hung open with a rattling snore that was blessedly low. His chest rose and fell in time with his breaths.

He would sleep for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Enough time for Ferid to do what needed to be done and then return to the hold as if he'd never been gone.

The sides of the hold were lined with gunports. More than a hundred years had gone by since last a Rune Cannon burst with fire and smoke, but the Armesians had built their navy from scratch, using designs recovered from the writings of Island Nations shipwrights from generations past, before the Federation Fleet existed. The modern ship designs were closely guarded secrets of the fleet—which made the Morning Glory an obsolete pile of driftwood. The gunports were battened down with thick cordage from inside, but without the use of cannons to make the design worthwhile, it would be nothing but a liability in high seas, and a drag on maneuverability. But in this case, the gunports worked in Ferid's favor.

He went to the rear of the hold and untied the ropes holding a portside gunport shut. He peered out, and squinted at the light.

The morning sun had burned the fog from the air, and a featureless sea rested across the horizon. Calm waves sloshed against the hull twenty inches beneath his head. Shafts of sunlight glittered on the scales of schools of fish swimming below the surface, but the water was deep and unfathomable. Sailors were singing a sea shanty as they worked on the deck and in the rigging, but the ship was at rest and only a few voices were truly engaged in the song. No one seemed to pay much attention to the hull.

Ferid contorted his shoulders and slipped through the opening. He twisted round and grabbed the top of a protruding plank. Then he pushed out and hung down, pressing against the hull and scuffing his feet against the wood, seeking a foothold.

His boots slipped again and again. His foot hovered just above the surface of the water. Another miss and he'd make a fine splash. He was holding his breath, and his flexed fingers ached against the plank. He hoisted his knees up, and tried again.

This time, his boots found purchase.

Ferid exhaled. He once again thanked his blessed ancestors for the design of the ship. The modern ships had much sleeker, smoother hulls.

Ferid hugged the hull and began to work his way, inch by inch, hand over hand, towards the stern. He heard the footfalls of heavy boots and the creak of wood approaching the rail above, and froze, pressing against the planks. Sweat ran down his back. His fingers throbbed with an ache like fire. Then the bootsteps turned.

He swung beneath the quarter gallery and clutched the miniature head of an angel carving as a handhold. The ornate gallery made for easy climbing, and the inward slope of the top of the outcrop would've given his arms a rest. But the quarter gallery was in plain sight for attentive marines, and not least sailors working in the rigging. He kept to the underside, working his hands from knob to knob, carving to carving.

He worked by feel, and paint flaked beneath his fingers. He kept his eyes moving, dividing his attention between the sailors on the ratlines and the empty horizon. Not an island in sight. The ache was working up his elbows and arms. Ferid reached out and clutched at a carving. He grasped air.

Ferid's shoulder swung down. The pitch carried him down and forward, and the hull smacked his face. His vision swam. His fingers slipped, and he flailed his fallen arm, seeking a handhold. He gritted his teeth and braced his boots against the hull. His right hand closed around the body of a slender sculpture. Then his left hand slipped away.

Ferid hung down from the quarter gallery. The toes of his boots sloshed water. His grip was good, so he took a moment to catch his breath. He'd been careless. If he'd fallen into the water, the splash would have been sure to bring attention to his position, and there was no guarantee that he would be able to climb back up the hull from the surface.

He cleared his thoughts and reached up, then hoisted himself up on the quarter gallery, scrambling and shuffling up so that he hugged the hull above the slope of the gallery. Then he grabbed a wrought-iron lantern, braced his left foot against the mermaid statue at the end and swung around to the stern.

Several double-door windows admitted light into cabins inside the sterncastle. He emerged below them. The ship's emblem was carved into the transom. Two Armesian tigers rampant against a mango tree. The design provided an excellent foothold.

Ferid clambered over the edge of the sterncastle and lay flat against the ledge, listening. No sound drifted through the windows but the low creak of the bulkheads. He edged his head up and peered through the latticed window.

Light streamed past his head into the captain's cabin and lit up the sandalwood desk at the back. A sea chart was stretched across the tabletop and pinned at the corners. On the far wall by the door hung a larger map of the Southern Continent and the Island Nations. The cabin was unoccupied.

Ferid unlatched the window and climbed inside. He bent over the sea chart.

The waxed vellum glistened in the light. Several routes were penned into the sheet, with dotted lines in various colors running courses along the territorial waters of New Armes, sometimes passing over Falenan waters. But one route deviated from the others. A rosy dotted line curled up along the edge of Island Nations-patrolled waters, curved in across empty seas to a rendezvous spot fifty miles from Nay, marked with a big X. Then the route swung around and retraced its steps towards New Armes. The ink hadn't had time to fade into the vellum.

Ferid stared at the chart. He tried to piece the puzzle together. If the admiral had come for the boy, he would be well on his way to Muaddha by now. No, he was waiting for something, and when someone waits out in the middle of the sea, fifty miles from the nearest land, it could only mean one thing. Another ship was coming.

But what ship? Shula Valya's abductors? But the boy was safely back on the admiral's ship. And if Mantal hungered for revenge—and Ferid had him pegged as the kind of man who nursed a grudge like a long lost son—he could hardly believe that Harwan would return after losing his bargaining chip. Unless Alzhara's sister was the cargo the admiral hoped to bring home, which made little sense to Ferid. It seemed more likely that Harwan had involved Admiral Mantal as a diversion. Which meant two things. One, that Mantal had illicit business in Federation Fleet jurisdiction, and two, that Harwan had been aware of this. This had the stink of treason on it. Was there a relation to Serwid—may he taste salt water for an eternity—and his slaver bands?

Suddenly there was a sound. Boots scuffed up against the door. The doorknob turned.

Ferid wheeled around and leapt onto the windowsill. He leaned to the side and rolled down onto the ledge outside. Reaching up, he pushed the window-panes shut as fast as he dared. He heard the door open.

The floorboards creaked beneath footsteps moving closer to the window.

Ferid held his breath. He stared up at the window, seeing nothing of the cabin; only the wooden lattice itself. He knew that if someone—the admiral?—looked out through the window, he would likely be seen. But to swing down and climb out of sight, he needed time. Not a lot of it, but too much. And he would, for a short moment, be in plain sight. What were the odds that Mantal would stop to gaze out the window? Another thought froze him. His boots had touched water earlier. Had he slogged it over the floor? Would it be enough to make the admiral take notice? His shoulders began to ache with the strain of tension as he lay there, alone with his frantic thoughts.

After what seemed an eternity, the footsteps turned, and moved away.

Ferid waited five heartbeats, and then swung down from the ledge. He had what he needed. Now he had to make it back to the hold. He braced his feet against the carved emblem and reached out for the lamp jutting out from the edge of the sterncastle. He used it as a pivot and swung around to the quarter gallery.

Ferid took a moment to catch his breath and collect his mind. He'd gotten a feel for the carvings adorning the gallery, and from there, he found it an easy matter to climb back down the hull. His fingers had numbed when he slid through the gunport.

The marine had curled up in the corner, and his snoring made a rattling noise that didn't carry out of the hold. He'd be out for several minutes, yet.

Ferid tapped his knuckles against the door, waited three heartbeats, and then whispered through the keyhole, "I'm back. But I'm going to take a look through the hold first."

"Got it," Yahr whispered.

Ferid crept through the shadows hugging the bulkhead, stepping over coiled lengths of rope and dodging barrels lashed to the timbers. He made his way to the other end of the hold and felt the door. It was unlocked, so he twisted the knob and pushed it open. He stepped into a storeroom that stretched twenty feet towards where the keel curved in and up into the bow of the ship. The walls were lined with barrels of water and rum, and crates of salted fish and meat and vegetables. Supplies like cordage, bundled canvas for sails, and spare lanyards and spars littered shelves or soaked up bilge on the floor. But something else caught Ferid's attention.

A space had been cleared in the middle of the hold. Sunlight slanted in through the seams of the planks above and lit up motes of dust dancing over something large, like several crates, covered with a tarp.

Ferid pulled it away. And his jaw dropped.

The design was crude: little more than an iron box on a wooden carriage. Rope was lashed about the thing, battening it down in case the wedges failed to hold the wheels in place. But the muzzle at the end of the stubby barrel left no doubt in his mind. The damned Armesians were building a Rune Cannon.

The steel blade of a dagger chilled Ferid's throat.

He twisted and grabbed the slender wrist holding the dagger, then swung around and reached for his attacker's throat. Another dagger pointed right at his face.

"Nice try," said Alzhara. "But many people want my hand. I've learned to protect it."

She wore the ceremonial finery of an Armesian marine officer, and her sun-bleached silver hair was tied back in a pony-tail beneath a puffy beret, but there was no mistaking the Falenan woman. Her sky blue eyes fixed him with a look like frosted iron.

Ferid leaned his head back and stared down at the dagger point. She had a steady hand. "What do you want?"

"Where is my sister?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Put those daggers away, and I'll give you my best guess." He frowned. "By the runes, what are you doing here?"

"No guesses. Where have you taken her?"

Ferid stared at her. "Frozen seas! You think I'm involved?"

She flicked the dagger along his throat and tossed her head at his hand. "Release me. And I'll give you my best guess."

Ferid scowled. "Lady, you're a few planks short of a hull. I'll let go when you put away your daggers." Her skin was smooth like silk, though swordplay had left calluses in her hands. Not highborn, then, which surprised him. A Falenan noblewoman would never sully her hands with weapons. They were too proud for that.

"How did you get it into your head that I had something to do with your sister's abduction?"

She shook her head, waggling the beret. The look she threw him was that of a startled cat. "You and your companions are members of the Albatross. That much I know. My guess: Your superiors got wind of Serwid's scheme, and you were sent to keep an eye on things. When the matter got out of hand, you were forced to intervene."

"Nice guess. I—" Ferid glanced over her shoulder, and widened his eyes.

Alzhara's concentration lapsed for a moment. Her eyes flickered towards the door.

Ferid slapped her hand away and grabbed the wrist. She yelped. Holding both wrists, he squeezed and pulled her arms over her head until her feet lifted right off the ground. She glared at him, and scrunched up her mouth as if she tasted something sour. He put his face right next to hers.

"Nice try. But a lot of people have wanted my throat, and I've gotten pretty good at protecting that, too." He frowned. "Now, about your delusions. I had nothing to do with your sister's abduction. I don't know how you figured out that we're Alb—"

Alzhara hammered her boot into his crotch.

Ferid bent at the knee. He gasped for air and blinked away tears. Alzhara twisted out of his grip and shoved him back. His bottom hit the Rune Cannon, and he fell backwards over it.

The weapon came alive with a whirr, and began to vibrate and hum.

Alzhara stood over him, daggers forgotten in her hands. Her mouth hung open, and she stared at the Rune Cannon.

"That's...!"

There was no time for her to finish the thought. Bootsteps clattered against the ladder outside the door. Marines were coming down the hold. From the deck came shouts and more creaking and clatter as sailors and marines moved above them.

Alzhara whirled around. She had just enough time to bury her daggers up her sleeves, and then half a dozen marines streamed into the hold, breathing hard and flashing weapons. They fanned out through the hold and formed a circle of steel around Ferid and Alzhara. Behind them, Admiral Mantal appeared through the doorway.

"So, it is true what they say. All ships have rats in the hold."

-Arshtat-

The door slammed shut on the prison hold, and a chain rustled as a padlock was clicked in place.

"Damn it," Ferid said, "If you'd just sat tight instead of sneaking around with daggers flashing, we'd be cruising by now."

Arshtat reached up her sleeve and clutched a hilt for protection. "I still need an answer."

"What answer?" he spat.

"Where is my sister?"

Ferid leaned an arm against the bulkhead, and fixed his eyes on the bilge that sloshed about his feet. He scowled. "I'm still reeling from the kick you gave me. I'll need a minute to think of an answer that's as stupid as your question."

She frowned, and started towards him. "Then the kick wasn't strong enough. I want a good answer."

Yahr peeled away from the wall and stepped in her path. With a smile, he motioned for her to stop. "Please?" The boy glanced at Ferid's hunched position, and grimaced. "The lieutenant looks like he really does need a moment."

Ferid snapped his head around. "An answer, is it?" He pushed Yahr aside and came close enough to stare down at Arshtat's face. "Here it is: I don't know. I have no idea. We've been hunting Serwid and his school of slimy anglers for months, until you blew the operation right out of the water. If Harwan is involved with that scum, I might know where the tide rolls in. But right now, we're minnows swimming with sharks."

Arshtat stared up at him. Her nurse had said the truth was in a man's eyes, but as she got older, she'd stopped believing that. She'd found it too easy to lie, and keep a straight face. But there was something about the emotion that did show in Ferid's features, the way his mouth had contorted into a thin line and was drawn back as if tasting something bitter, that spoke to her. Perhaps men did not learn to guard their thoughts and emotions, like women did. She believed he was truly upset.

But his attitude was deplorable. Arshtat wrapped her arms around her chest and raised an eyebrow at him. "Your 'operation' means nothing to me. My sister's been abducted by slavers—or worse. If you're not part of the problem, I expect you to be part of the solution." She wafted a hand at him. "And by all the runes, the way you speak makes me doubt if you were born with your head above water. I've never heard Falenan so ill treated, even in the southern provinces. You may as well have your own language!"

Ferid's jaw had gradually dropped as she spoke, and now hung open. He clamped it shut and snarled before saying, "Then why in the deep are you part of the problem? If you'd stayed in your cabin and braided your hair and polished your nails, we'd be one step closer to your sister instead of two steps further away. And I don't give a…" he hesitated, then settled for, "…a broken rune piece for what you think of my language. I speak Falenan as I was taught."

His cheeks had filled with color. Despite the situation, Arshtat could barely keep from smiling. But she despised his attitude. And more than that, she despised the fact that he was right. After discovering them in the fore-hold, Mantal had thrown her into the makeshift brig situated in the after-hold, and the guard outside had been doubled at least. The admiral had been furious with the marine discovered sleeping at his post. A quick search of Ferid, Georg, and Yahr had turned up no runes adorning their hands or foreheads, and the Armesians had been thus satisfied to believe that the guard was at fault. Arshtat was not so sure.

Arshtat knew that escape would be more difficult now. It didn't help matters that she would no longer be able to manipulate events from abovedeck. But the way Ferid rubbed it in made it impossible for her to admit these things. She would not give him the satisfaction when he behaved like such a child. Besides, she had needed to be sure of his intentions.

"What's done is done." Arshtat slanted her head. "Braid my hair and polish my nails. Did you believe I am that spoiled?"

Ferid snorted, then said, "I think you're so highborn, if you fell into the ocean, your nose would still touch the sky."

Arshtat rolled her eyes. "I'll let you have the last word on that. What are you going to do about the Rune Cannon?"

Georg had been oblivious to the conversation. He paced on the spot, clenched and unclenched his fists, and scratched at his palms. Now his head snapped around, and he gaped.

"A Rune Cannon!"

Yahr rubbed at his chin. His eyes were wide. "Lieutenant, is that true?"

Ferid tilted his head and clutched his arms. He seemed to see Arshtat in a new light. "So you noticed."

Gasps came from Yahr and Georg.

"The Island Nations haven't had Rune Cannons for 130 years," said Arshtat. "I'd imagine this is more interesting to the Albatross than slavers."

Ferid scratched at his chin, and muttered, "I need to shave." He sat back against a timber support and chewed on his lip for a moment before flicking his eyes up at the others and saying, "I don't know if it works or if it's just a prototype, but it's more than just a piece of junk. It hummed like something alive. And isn't it funny how the New Armes Western Marine Corps just happens to sail into Federation Fleet waters with a Rune Cannon on board." He shook his head. "I need to make sure that slab of iron rusts on the bed of the ocean before I leave this ship."

Yahr nodded, then asked, "What about the charts? Did you see them?"

"Yes. It's just a matter of time, now. The route is—"

The padlock rustled, and fell away with a clank. Then the door opened, and Mantal stood framed by sunlight. He pointed to Ferid.

"We need to talk, you and I," he said in Falenan.

-Ferid-

Admiral Mantal smoothed his trousers and sat. He steepled his fingers against the desktop. When he spoke, he took his time forming the words, and seemed uncomfortable with the language. "You'll forgive me for… not affording you the same hospitality as your women companions."

Ferid stood in the middle of the cabin, facing the desk. Shackles bound his hands behind his back, and three marines crowded around him. One of them handled a length of chain connected to the shackles.

Ferid stretched out his shoulders and neck, grimaced, and then flashed a smile. "I'm used to it."

Mantal ran a hand over the desktop. He eyed Ferid from beneath the folds of his beret. "I can believe that." He darkened. "The Albatross… The bird is a lot like a gull. Except its wings are spread wider when it shits on your sails."

Ferid smirked. "Poetic." Then he let the smirk fade. "Our operation has nothing to do with the New Armes Western Marine Corps. You're detaining Federation Fleet officers and civilians under our aegis, in Island Nations waters."

"Under your… aegis?" Mantal grunted, and half stood. "Not so. The women are not your charges."

Shackles and chain clinked and rustled as Ferid shrugged. "They are travelers in Island Nations waters. They are our charges whether they know it or not."

Mantal plopped back down. "Why are you here?"

Ferid thought for a moment before saying, "I guess there's no harm in telling you. The captain of the Raven's Revenge, the vessel you boarded, was in the employ of a notorious band of slavers known as Leviathan's Grasp. We stole away on his ship, hoping that he would lead us to his masters."

Mantal grunted, and said, "Then our arrival came at a bad time for you."

Ferid pursed his lips, and shifted from one foot to the other. "Things had turned sour before your arrival. But now we're stuck on your ship, and I wonder what you're going to do with us."

"Yes," Mantal said. He leaned forward against the desktop. "I wonder, too."

"Release us, Admiral Mantal. I know many places where you can drop us off and be gone before anyone wonders what a ship flying the New Armes ensign is doing in Fleet-patrolled waters."

Mantal narrowed his eyes. He stared at Ferid for several long moments before saying, "It is a shame you poked your head into the fore-hold. If you had not seen what you saw…" Mantal shrugged, and went on, "Things have, as you put it, 'turned sour' between us."

Ferid felt sweat bead on his forehead. He could say that he had seen nothing worth mention. Imply that he hadn't understood what was there before his eyes in the hold. But a man like Mantal would take offense at such a pathetic lie.

He managed a weak smile. "The Rune Cannon is not my concern."

Mantal leaned back in his seat. "But it is my concern." He shook his head. "I cannot release you. I must find out how much you know. But first…"

"What?"

Mantal straightened in his seat, and scowled at Ferid. "Several of my marines were killed in the boarding. Among them was a midshipman; a squad leader in the boarding. I want to know who killed him."

The look on Mantal's face promised pain. Ferid was at once breathless, and his mouth felt dry. He worked through his memory. Several Armesian marines had fallen to Ferid's sword. He had seen no rank insignia on those men, but such details had a tendency to get lost in the heat of battle. It could've well been him. But even if it hadn't been his sword that delivered the killing thrust, he was still responsible. He was in charge.

Ferid made his eyes hard. "I killed him."

Mantal's scowl deepened. "Reports tell me that you were in the hold. My men believe that one of your subordinates is responsible."

Georg, then? Most likely. The boy seemed to have a death wish at times.

Ferid snorted. "My subordinates are spineless rats. They don't have the guts to kill a man face to face. I chopped the man down before I went into the hold."

Mantal stared long and hard at him. Finally he blinked, and slowly nodded. "Men die in a fight. I cannot hate you for that. But my men have lost comrades. They must see an answer."

Sweat prickled at Ferid's neck. The sullen looks on the faces of the marines surrounding him spoke of the truth in the admiral's words. What punishment did he have in store for him? Ferid banished the thoughts racing through his head. He drew up reserves of anger instead, and set his jaw until it ached. Let them kill or maim him. He would die a man of the sea. And whatever didn't maim him, he would withstand.

Mantal pushed his chair back and stood, nodding at a marine. "Lieutenant," he said in his own language, "Call the crew onto deck. And bring out the scourge."

-Arshtat-

Two marines escorted Arshtat out of the hold and pushed her up the stairs onto the deck.

The sudden sunlight blinded her. She shielded her eyes from the glare. Admiral Mantal had gathered the ship's crew into two rows lining the port and starboard bulwarks, and all faces were directed inward, amidships. There, thick ropes bound Ferid to the mainmast. He had been stripped to the waist, and the warm midday sun smote his back and shoulders. His arms wrapped around the mast, and he hunched against it with his back exposed. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath, but he was silent, and stared ahead.

He was steeling himself. Arshtat ran her eyes over his broad shoulders. In the fore-hold, he'd pulled her off the ground with as much ease as a child scoops up a cat from the table. She'd been surprised at that, but now saw that beneath his shirt, Ferid's arms and shoulders were roped with well-defined muscle. Funny that. He'd seemed so lean at first glance. Almost lanky.

Some men had noticed her ascent, but none spared her more than a glance. All eyes were on Ferid, and upon the midshipman whose boots creaked against the deck where he paced back and forth, unfurling a cat-o'-nine-tails. Her escorts took up position at the ends of either line of men, and straightened.

Admiral Mantal strolled up to her. He had his hands folded behind his back, and fixed her with a grim smile. "Alzhara. I want you to see how spies are treated in New Armes."

Arshtat furrowed her brow. "This seems a poor reward for saving the life of Shula Valya. Will the boy be watching his savior's flogging, as well?"

Mantal looked taken aback, but only for a moment. His lips twisted into a smirk. "He is much too young. He wouldn't understand."

Arshtat shook her head. "Then I must be too young as well. This is absurd."

"Watch yourself." Mantal walked up beside her. "This is not for you to judge. And yes, you are too young." He gestured towards a marine who stood at the ready by the sterncastle.

The marine saluted and then quickly disappeared through one of the doors. When he emerged, he pushed Jumana ahead of him.

Arshtat widened her eyes. When the woman came close enough, she took her bandaged hands in hers and frowned. "Jumana. Are you hurt?"

Jumana shook her head. "I am more worried about you, err, Miss Alzhara."

She hesitated a bit too long on the title. But that was quite alright. Arshtat smiled. "Do not worry about me. I have not been mistreated. Though I can't say the same for Ferid."

Jumana spared a glance at the man before saying, "Miss Alzhara, don't waste your energy on that scoundrel. I'm sure he deserves it."

Arshtat blinked, and then scrunched up her lips. "Jumana! How can you be so—"

Mantal raised a hand to silence her. "It begins."

The midshipman cracked the scourge in mid-air several times to test it. It made a dull sound. He took up position behind Ferid, and spread his legs wide apart to gain strength in his blows.

"Admiral, I urge you to reconsider this," Arshtat said. "We will cooperate. There's no need to—"

The scourge lashed against Ferid's back with a thud. He grunted.

Arshtat flinched. Blood rushed to her temples, and she clenched her jaw. "Admiral Mantal. I want this to end, now."

He scoffed. "You are in no position to make any demands. Especially not after you started crawling through my hold like a common rat."

Arshtat flared her nostrils. "I prefer 'mouse.' She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and said, "If you won't stop this, then at least tell me why."

Mantal arched an eyebrow. "Isn't it obvious? This man killed several of my men."

She twisted her lips into a mirthless smirk. "You take me for a fool."

The admiral's face went slack with surprise. "Miss?"

The scourge thudded against Ferid's naked skin. The midshipman made alternating strokes against his shoulders and back, and angry red welts formed in its wake. Ferid steeled himself, but now and then a tortured grunt escaped his lips. He thrashed his head from side to side, face contorted in pain as he ground his teeth together.

Arshtat's throat felt dry. She swallowed several times before saying, "You mean to tell me that you're taking revenge for your dead men. But you know full well the circumstances of their deaths. Your marines leapt across the railing with spears raised to kill. They were ready to die, and however meaningless their deaths were, I cannot believe you are so vindictive that you do not see that. There is no crime here." She shook her head, and made a sweeping gesture at the assembled men. "I see no fury in the faces of these men."

Jumana's eyes widened. "Miss Alzhara, don't agitate him."

Mantal scowled. He fixed Arshtat with a hard look, and stared at her for several heartbeats. Then he pursed his lips and nodded. When he spoke, his voice was low, for her ears only, "You see clearly, Miss Alzhara. And you play the Scales. A remarkable woman, you are. I told you that the clothes you wear belonged to one of my dead marines. The truth is that the midshipman who wore these clothes before you was the son of a friend of mine. A son I had sworn to protect." He frowned, and stepped in to brush a fallen hair from her shoulder.

Arshtat saw Jumana bulge her eyes and bare her teeth in affront at the touch. Arshtat fixed her eyes with hers and made the tiniest gesture of a head-shake. She sighed inwardly. How could Jumana expect her to remain calm if the woman could not master her own emotions at a time like this?

"Will you whip all three men for his death?" she asked.

Mantal tightened his lips. "Ferid has admitted to killing him. Only he will be punished."

Arshtat blinked. He'd admitted? But Ferid had been with her the entire time from the first shiver of the deck as the two ships collided. She was certain he had killed no midshipman. She started to say something, but thought better of it. Of course. The fool had martyred himself. If she spoke now, Mantal may well punish the others in his place, and there was no guarantee that Ferid's punishment would be cut short.

She forced herself to watch the scourge's motions without flinching. To Mantal, she said, "How long will this barbaric display last? Do you intend to flay the man?"

Mantal clenched his fist. "I don't know." His voice broke, and he cleared his throat before adding, "The sound of the whip is soothing to me as I imagine the face of my friend. But I had hoped that the sight of him would give some comfort."

The scourge thudded against Ferid's back and ripped a howl from his lungs. The scream was filled with more fury than despair.

Arshtat clenched her jaws shut to keep from matching the howl. She realized she was grinding her teeth, and relaxed a bit. She tried to keep her voice level as she spoke. "There will be no comfort, admiral. Your friend's son fought and died as a warrior. If there is blame here, it should rest on Harwan for provoking an utterly meaningless conflict." She had to pause and rub at her temples. She had a headache as deep as the Feitas.

"That is small consolation," said Mantal.

She wanted to punch him in the face, but decided that it would likely be counterproductive. "Admiral Mantal. This whipping means nothing. You will face your friend eventually and tell him that his son is dead. Whether your friend forgives you or not, I don't know, but Ferid has no part in this. He fought in self-defense."

Mantal was silent for several, oh-so-quick, heartbeats. Then he cleared his throat and called out, "Enough!"

The midshipman halted in mid-swing. The scourge's tails went slack and dangled around his elbow. He lowered his arm, and stepped away. Two marines hurried over to the mainmast and began to untie Ferid. Dozens of welts striped his back red, and blood trickled down his shredded skin where shallow lacerations had opened.

Arshtat expelled her breath in relief. "Thank you," she said.

"You have convinced me," Mantal said. He turned to face her, frowning. "The boy will return with us to New Armes. My friend will decide his fate."

Arshtat's heart sank. But at least it gave them time. She gave a quick nod, then turned and said, "Jumana—"

"I am surprised," Mantal said in a voice loud and clear, then followed with, "That you care so much for the boy's fate. You see, Jumana has told me the truth about you."

Arshtat looked at her. Jumana cast her eyes downward, and wouldn't meet hers.

Had Jumana revealed her secret? She couldn't believe it. The woman would sooner die. But the look on her face was filled with such guilt. Could it be true?

"And what, exactly, is that?" Arshtat asked.

Mantal rubbed at his beard. "Your father is a cold man, to send his daughters to run his errands. Especially when it's darkleaf you aim to purchase. They don't look too kindly on that in Queendom ports, I hear."

Arshtat gaped. She glanced at Jumana, and tried to mask her relief with a feigned look of hurt. Smugglers, were they? Darkleaf was a powerful narcotic grown in Kooluk. If you got caught bringing a crate of that foul substance through Hershville, you'd likely rot in a Stormfist cell for the next decade. Her grandmother was aware that the trade was carried out somewhere in Island Nations territory, but had gotten no closer to shutting down the inflow into Falena. The story made sense, though it was distasteful.

"There was no ban on darkleaf in Muaddha, last I heard."

Mantal chuckled. "It's not my concern. It's an outrageous story, a pair of girls and a Riyan smuggling darkleaf between Kooluk and Falena. Almost too absurd to believe. Except…" He glanced at Jumana. "When told by a desert woman, I have to believe it."

Jumana seemed to wither under the admiral's smirk. Arshtat wondered how much it had cost the woman to lie to Mantal. He seemed to know more about the Riya than Arshtat did, which piqued her curiosity. But for now, Jumana's sagging shoulders would serve as 'proof' of her shame in betraying her mistress. Which well fit their masquerade.

The ropes fell from Ferid's wrists. He staggered, and his cheek slid against the mast before he caught himself. He grimaced, and straightened out, then started towards the hold. Every other step was a stumble, and his eyes lost focus momentarily. The marines grabbed his arms to steady him. He growled and jerked his limbs loose, and then shoved both men away. They hesitated, exchanging glances, but then let him walk as best he could.

Mantal grunted. "The boy has spirit. A man can break under such a lashing. And I know for a fact that Rayat was not holding back with the scourge."

Arshtat hurried over to Ferid, took his shoulder, and steadied him.

His eyes focused on her, and he made a weary noise that turned into a wheezing cough. "I can walk."

Arshtat thinned her lips. "I'm sure you would attempt to scale a cliff, if given the chance. You strike me as that kind of fool."

The tired smile she got in return lifted her heart. No, this man had not broken. She wondered what it would take for that to happen. She wouldn't want to see what could do it.

Halfway to the hold, Ferid said, "See the ship that approaches."

Arshtat's breath hitched as she turned.

An unpainted vessel plowed through the water towards the Morning Glory. A gentle breeze drove its square rig, and crewmen in nondescript work clothes labored to fold its sails in preparation for the rendezvous. No marines could be seen on the small ship's deck. The ensign that flew from the sterncastle was an Island Nations merchant flag.

Mantal leaned on the rail, watching the ship pull alongside. The smile on his lips dashed Arshtat's hopes. He was expecting this vessel.

-Ferid-

Ferid hadn't known the body could sustain such pain. The blows had rained on his shoulders and back, and with each lash, what had started as a sudden sting grew more intense as his skin softened and broke under the rawhide tails. It had been enough to make him lose his breath to start with, and then it had gotten worse.

Though the scourge was gone, the heat that welled up in its wake was intense, like a limb left exposed to the withering desert sun until it smoldered. He doubled over by the bulkhead, draping his arms over his legs to keep his back exposed. It was a single entity, his skin, and the pain throbbed with heat as if some fiery devil were burning a hole through his body. He focused on his breath; on drawing in another lungful of the dank hold's air. He could almost taste the pitch used to seal the seams.

He didn't know how long it had taken him to recover enough to shift his focus to the inhabitants of the hold. Several long minutes, if not more. But he had not wasted his time. He had spent those dizzying spells of agony thinking of yet more inventive ways to sink the Morning Glory to the bottom of the ocean. He now had at least a dozen ideas worth implementing.

He became aware of voices.

"These people don't know the first thing about caulking," Yahr said. He flattened himself against the hull and ran fingers along the seams. "What are they using here, horse dung?"

Ferid grunted. "You're always worrying about the small things. Learn to worry about the big picture, Yahr." The words came out a croak.

Yahr widened his eyes, and he shot up from the bilge with a look of relief flooding his features. "Lieutenant, you're back with us." He reached to pat him on the shoulder, but thought better of it and stayed his hand, grimacing. Then he frowned and said, "Hey, I need to worry about the little things. I'm shorter than you. If this bucket sinks, I'll be the first to drown."

"I'll be sure to hold you up," Georg muttered as he approached, "So you can see us wave goodbye."

Yahr twisted his lips. "You're even shorter."

Georg shrugged. "I'm still growing. Maybe I'll pass you."

Alzhara sat cross-legged before Ferid. "I won't ask you how you're feeling." She narrowed her eyes, and pressed her mouth tight with disapproval. "Mantal told me why he had you whipped."

Ferid grunted. She had that look of half concern, half affront that he'd only ever seen women muster. Frozen seas, but she actually looked upset with him! His father had once said that if women would mind their own business, they'd never get wrinkles. Of course, he'd muttered it when the others were out of earshot. He was the husband of a boar of a woman, after all, and the blessed father of no less than seven girls. And as for Ferid, he'd gotten used to it.

"What else did he say?"

She straightened her back and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. "Apparently, the midshipman you killed,"—she paused to shoot him a glare—"Was the son of a friend of the admiral."

"Barnacles! You expect me to let someone else taste the whip for me?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. You must've oversold the lie to convince Mantal. He could as well have killed you."

Ferid shrugged. "But he didn't." He rubbed at his neck. "Besides, this was the best way to sound the waters. Now we know how many marines there are and what their organization is, and I got a good look at the deck and the rigging."

Alzhara clenched her jaw. She was silent for several heartbeats before saying, "You did this on purpose." There was but the faintest trace of a question in the words.

Ferid had upset enough girls in his time to know that look. He hesitated, then said, "It worked out to our advantage."

Alzhara jerked back as if he had slapped her. She drew her mouth to a thin point as she regarded him. Then she stood, said, "You're a fool," and turned.

He ran his eyes up her backside, then glanced at Georg and Yahr. The mewling foot-lickers didn't meet his eyes. It was pathetic how some men shrank in the presence of women! He scratched at the bristle on his cheek and sighed. "This is too small a place to hold a grudge."

She swung her eyes back over her shoulder. "Do not mistake my disgust for a grudge. I'm merely spending my time on something more fruitful than conversing with dim-witted boar."

"And what are you doing?"

She strolled along the bulkhead, running her hands over the wood. "Thinking on how to escape."

Yahr fidgeted. "Look, lady, this is a ship. You don't just escape. There's a procedure." He flushed beet red as she looked at him, but went on to say, "Well, a lot of procedures, but…" He trailed off, shuffling his feet.

Alzhara's eyes pierced Yahr's. "There must be a way."

Yahr lit up with a grin. "Just trust the lieutenant. We've done this before."

"You know," Georg muttered, "I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

Alzhara stood above Ferid, arms crossed. "So. It comes back to you."

Ferid leaned back a bit. His back hurt, but the view made up for it. He smirked. "I thought you didn't want to waste your time."

Alzhara's ponytail flashed silver in the lamplight as she jerked her head. "Even the heron must wade with the crabs."

"What else did Mantal say? Is he still trying to decide if you're a spy?"

She shook her head. "Thanks to Jumana's quick thinking, he's now convinced that the three of us were on a smuggling run for darkleaf, and involved with Serwid. One less coincidence to his mind."

If it hadn't hurt so much to move, Ferid would've laughed. Darkleaf? A thought entered his mind: a vision of Alzhara's little sister dragging a sack of contraband twice her size down a Hershville alley.

"Do you find that amusing?"

Ferid wiped the smile from his face. "Certainly not. That's good, that he's off your trail. I also learned some things."

She arched an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"The ship that now stands less than a cable apart from the Morning Glory is out of Razril."

Alzhara slumped down on her haunches. "An Island Nations ship? But why?"

Ferid would like to know that. So this was the course Mantal had plotted on the chart—a rendezvous with an Island Nations ship. The idea of Federation sailors conspiring with the Armesian navy, in their own waters no less, made bile rise at the pit of his throat. He wanted to clamber aboard the vessel and shake people until the truth fell out. But the traitors would be desperate men, and he knew that, if rattled, they would respond with panic, and with violence. And little good would come out of that. There would be time to deal with them later, and Ferid never forgot the look of a ship.

Ferid leaned forward and tapped his fingers together. "I don't know. But I doubt if the Admiral came here just to retrieve a kidnapped boy. The Rune Cannon is at the heart of it, sure as the fish is wet."

Alzhara bit her lip. "Do you think someone from the Island Nations is helping the Armesians develop Rune Cannons?"

The venom had gone out of her face and voice. She squatted with hands on knees before him, and chewed at her lip. And on her head, still that puffy hat, sagging over her brow. For a moment, he couldn't take his eyes off of her.

Alzhara pushed back the hat and waved a hand before his eyes. "What's wrong?"

Ferid blinked. He felt color rise to his cheeks, and coughed. "Nothing. Anyway, I don't want to leap to conclusions, but something's not right here."

She stood back up, towering over him. "What do you intend to do about it, fearless leader?"

Ferid groaned, and clambered to his feet, refusing the helping hands stretched out for him. He wrung the bilge water from his trousers. "I'm not waiting around for bush justice in Muaddha. I've seen Mantal's charts. The course he's following will keep a low profile, but he can't avoid passing by a certain island."

Yahr pressed fingers to his forehead and furrowed his brow, then popped his eyes open. "Jalima Island? But they wouldn't pass close enough to… Oh."

Ferid nodded. "Right."

Alzhara arched an eyebrow. "What?"

Yahr thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled. "Like I said, we've done this before."

It took some time to work out the plan. After they were done, the waiting began.

Ferid found it difficult to keep track of time. Shoddy as the caulking was in places, with water seeping through the seams and trickling into the bilge, it was enough to keep the sun out. If not for the oil lamp that dangled from a hook in the ceiling timbers, darkness would embrace the brig. He had nothing to go by but his best guess.

How much time had passed when the ship rocked into motion? An hour? Two? Subtle changes in the vessel's pitch and roll alerted Ferid even before Alzhara was startled as the ship began to heel. The creak of the bulkheads changed timbre and rhythm.

"How could you know?" Arshtat had wondered.

He hadn't been able to explain it.

Sleep took the others, but Ferid couldn't quite relax. He needed to stay focused. He worked out a method of counting his heartbeats in strings and sequences. It wasn't accurate by any stretch, but at least it kept his mind busy. Too many variables plagued the plan. They'd hammered out the idea together, and worked out the kinks. He knew it was as good as it was going to get. But his idle mind grasped at straws, finding faults and flaws in every detail. He'd tried to focus on something else, but Alzhara's face kept popping into his head when he did that. He swore it was the woman's stubborn nature that got under his skin. Nothing else.

The ship's sudden yaw came after five hours. Maybe four, maybe six or seven. He wasn't sure. But they'd changed course by at least thirty degrees. And that meant that they were getting close.

He felt along the wall as he got to his feet in a haze of exhaustion. It'd pass once his blood got flowing, he knew.

"Yahr, Georg, wake up." He rubbed his boot against the latter's shoulder.

Georg's eyes popped open. He stretched his neck and looked up at Ferid, then grunted and hopped to his feet, spry as a cat. He stretched out his limbs. "Good. I'd go crazy if we had to wait for much longer."

"I'll need that dagger, Yahr," said Ferid.

Yahr rubbed at his bleary eyes. He yawned and nodded, then reached down his sleeve and fished out a dagger that looked to be buried deeper down than the man's clothes went. He tossed it, and it went sailing towards Ferid.

Ferid caught the dagger by the handle and felt along its edge. It was a good weapon. Federation Fleet standard issue, forged as a backup weapon for close quarters combat. For situations just like these.

Alzhara was on her feet, and eyed the weapon. "It's all or nothing now, isn't it? No more slaps on the wrist if we're caught."

Ferid thrust the dagger at the air, feeling its weight and balance. "Right."

Alzhara reached down her dress. All three men jerked around, averting their eyes. Leather rustled, and the snick of metal blades sounded.

"You can look now," she said.

Ferid turned back to see three daggers fanned out in her hand. He gaped.

Alzhara plucked one dagger for herself and held out the other two for Georg and Yahr.

Georg recovered first. He snapped his mouth shut and grabbed a dagger. He looked over the blade and narrowed his eyes on her. "Thanks," he said.

Yahr let slip a nervous chuckle. "Lady, you're just full of surprises," he said, and picked the last dagger. He cradled it like a baby in his hands, and stole several long glances at Alzhara.

Alzhara fixed them both with a stern look. "I'll expect to receive these daggers back in the same condition you received them in. Is that clear?"

Georg widened his eyes. "Uh, right."

Yahr bowed his head. "Yes, lady," he mumbled.

Ferid stared at her. The Armes outfit was bulky, but she'd kept such a bevy of daggers hidden in the thin dress she wore on the Raven's Revenge. Mantal had underestimated the woman. If he'd turned her upside down and shook her at the start, iron would've clattered on the deck. She could teach Yahr a thing or two.

"Bloody shark's blood," Ferid muttered under his breath. He shook his head in bewilderment.

Yahr bent down and fished his lockpick from the bilge. He squinted at it, and said, "Armesians have absolutely no imagination."

They lined up by the door and waited until they heard creaking boots outside. Murmurs were muffled by the door as the guard changed. They allowed enough time for the change to be completed and the tired marines to get tucked in back at their bunks.

Yahr worked the tumblers in silence, and got the lock opened. Ferid put his eye to the keyhole. Three marines shuffled their feet outside, basking in the light that pooled beneath a lantern set in the bulkhead. All three men stood close to the door. Ferid waited for the nearest man to stretch out and yawn. Then he turned the knob and slammed open the door.

The wood knocked into the back of the yawning marine's head. A thud and a grunt, and the man stumbled forward. Ferid leapt through the opening. The other marines turned, and looked surprised. He thrust his dagger. The steel blade buried itself in the left-hand man's throat. Ferid yanked the dagger loose and ducked.

A dagger swished over his head. The dying marine gurgled, and gasped for air. Both marines buckled knees and thudded against the bilge.

The third man stumbled to his feet and turned. He opened his mouth to yell a warning.

Georg flashed past Ferid. He flicked his dagger around and hammered the hilt into the side of the marine's face. The blow swung the man around. He slumped down with a drawn-out groan. His head knocked against the bulkhead in several places and then hit the floor with a sickening crack. Blood trickled from his temple, and his eyes blanked out.

Ferid watched the man die, and felt a chill. He shook himself, and stepped over the body. He had preferred not to kill any more of Mantal's men.

Alzhara stepped around the bodies, and studied their dead faces without flinching. She met Ferid's eyes and nodded. She clutched the dagger like she meant to use it.

Yahr hurried over and collected his weapon from the throat of the marine he'd sniped.

Ferid tapped Yahr on the shoulder and flashed a few hand signs.

Yahr responded with an affirmative gesture and disappeared through the door into the fore-hold. Ferid started towards the ladder.

The sky showed through the hatch. Stars twinkled through gaps in dark clouds that blurred the moon. The timing was right. But they had their work cut out for them.

-Mantal-

Shouts drifted through from the deck and jerked Mantal out of his thoughts even before the door swung open. His pen rattled against the desk and he looked up to see one of his marines fill the doorway.

The man's eyes were as big as tea cups. He didn't waste time catching his breath before saying, "Sir!"

Mantal leaned against the desk. "What? Out with it, man!"

"They're gone. The spies. The hold is empty!"

Mantal shot up. In his hurry he banged his knee on the desk and gritted his teeth against the pain. He thundered past the man. "Out. Search every inch of the ship! How long ago was this? What about the guards?"

Cursed gods of the desert. He should've stripped the damn spies down to the loins, and propriety be damned! There was no way they could've gotten out of the hold undetected without runes.

The marine ran to keep up. "They're dead, sir. Two stabbed in the throat, the third knocked out."

Mantal snarled. "What about the Riyan?"

The man shook his head. "She's gone, too."

Another marine almost tripped over his spear as he ran up to them. "Sir! One of the boats is missing."

Mantal clutched the starboard rail. "Everybody on the lookout. Scan the waves. I want the damned rats found!"

The Morning Glory cut through calm seas. Now and then the moon would come out and glitter against the waves, but it was too dark to see well. Mantal stared wide-eyed at the midnight blue canvas, and tried to discern the spray of oars or the bobbing of a boat against the background. He dared not blink, for fear of missing the slightest little sign. His eyes soon ached with the effort.

"Captain!" a sailor called from the crow's nest. "There's a light!"

Mantal jerked his head up to see where the man was pointing. He followed the gesture and swung around.

A tiny light bobbed on the waves, flickering as though the dark seas threatened to swallow it up. The glow was just strong enough to betray the wooden frame of a small vessel several hundred yards out. Behind it, the dark shape of an island pierced the horizon.

Mantal took the steps of the sterncastle two at a time. "Hard to starboard!" he yelled.

The helmsman rolled the wheel, and the ship yawed. The sails flapped, went slack, and then caught the wind and stretched out.

Mantal clung to the rail, and jabbed a hand at the lantern bobbing on the waves in the distance. He watched the Morning Glory gain on the boat, and gnashed his teeth. So they thought they could run from Admiral Jasuan Mantal? The fools would learn different.

The lantern's light grew as it drew close. Mantal thundered down the stairs to the deck. "Marines, to me. Ready for battle! If they resist, kill them." He made his way to the bow in anticipation of overtaking the boat. He leaned against the rail and stared at the lantern. The island grew close behind it, but the boat was coming up fast. He put a grim smile on his lips.

The Morning Glory swept past, and the lantern's light illuminated the vessel. Mantal drew his saber.

Two barrels bobbed on the water, lashed together with thick lengths of rope. Another rope lashed the lantern to a wooden board wedged between the barrels. A sheet of canvas hung half-secured from the board, flapping in the wind and soaking in the salt water. It had been rigged so that the lantern would be obscured until some time had passed. The makeshift raft was barely sea-worthy. It had drifted with the stream towards the island.

Mantal clenched his teeth and shook his fists. The spies had played him for a fool. He turned to his marines, and shouted, "Find them!"

The marines had been staring at the admiral. Now, his voice scrambled them, and in a moment, the deck was alive with the pounding of boots.

Mantal slammed his fist on the rail. His fingers numbed. "And bring out the cannon!"

-Arshtat-

Water sloshed between the boat and the stern of the Morning Glory. Their tiny vessel bobbed on the waves in the shadow beneath the sterncastle.

Arshtat huddled in the back of the boat, clutching a projecting ornament on the ship's stern. Her hands cramped. The water was altogether too close for her tastes. Beside her, Jumana huddled, her legs crossed on the wet floor. The woman had her eyes bulged, and was fighting down the panic, surrounded by water less than two feet away on all sides.

Shouts sounded on deck. Admiral Mantal's words were made indistinct by the bulkheads between them, but he sounded livid. The sails were shortened, and the ship slowed. At the same time, the rudder creaked in the water, and the Morning Glory yawed to port. They'd found the decoy.

It was all the signal they needed. Ferid and Georg shipped the oars, put their backs into it, and dug into the water.

Jalima Island loomed close, taunting them with its presence. At a distance of a hundred yards, the features of the craggy island showed. The steep sides of the island ascended across jagged rock towards a bushy plateau, where the dark structure of a lighthouse rose.

Arshtat prayed this ruse would work. Their special objectives necessitated a more complex escape than she would have prefered. To simply slip away in the night had been so tempting.

They were halfway to where water rolled in over the shore when the thunder struck. But there was no lightning; only a flash from the hull of the Morning Glory.

Ferid swore, then said, "Get down!" He clenched his teeth, and leaned back as far as he could while still keeping momentum for the oars.

A flaring sphere hurtled towards them, turning black sky to pulsing gray.

Arshtat hit the deck and coiled up in the bilge. Water soaked her trousers. Jumana huddled over her, using her body to shield her charge.

The cannon shell punched through the surface of the ocean with a sound like water pouring on hot rocks. Warm water sprayed on Arshtat. The boat rocked. Steam rose from the sizzling surface, and bubbles rose into the air.

Arshtat pushed Jumana aside and looked around.

The burning shell had hit the sea less than two yards from their position. It was a good shot. Their next one, she assumed, would be better.

Georg and Ferid worked the oars in a frenzy. "Pull! Pull!" Ferid shouted in tune with the creak of the oars. The rowlocks groaned under the pressure.

The cannon boomed. Another flash lit up the side of the Morning Glory. The shell whistled through the night.

The shore beckoned. Twenty-odd yards separated them from the island, and the bushes above the sand rustled in the midnight breeze. Beside the twenty-foot-wide stretch of the strand, tall cliffs shot up.

Arshtat clenched her teeth. The plan hinged on this. If they didn't make it ashore, it would all be for naught. Even Yahr's work would be wasted. She stared into Ferid's vacant eyes, and followed his every push and pull of the back. Her fingers itched to picked up the oar, but she knew that even if there were space for her, she would do more harm than good. She bowed her head, but remained seated. If she was hit, she was hit. She wouldn't be caught huddling in the bilge during her final moments. She was a mouse; not a rat.

The cannon shell came crashing down. Water plumed, and wood splintered and exploded. The boat rocked to the right as if a great weight had been forced down on its side. Heat washed over Arshtat and singed her clothes. The breath was forced out of her lungs, and then the pluming water sprayed over her.

Arshtat clung to the side of the boat and to Jumana. She forced her eyes open and squinted against the waning fire. The shell had caught the boat on the starboard gunwale and punched right through. Water poured into the vessel, and the boat listed more and more with each second.

Jumana clawed at the intact side of the boat and flailed her feet, trying to bail water. It seemed a pointless effort. Georg shielded his face from the explosion, jerking at the oar ineffectually. At his side, Ferid slumped against the splintered gunwale. The side of his face was slick with blood mixed with water, and his eyes were pulled shut. As Arshtat rose in her seat and tried to figure out if he were dead or unconscious, his shoulder slid over the edge, and he plummeted into the water.

"No!" Arshtat cried. She lunged at the side of the boat. The vessel rocked and tilted beneath the sudden displacement of weight. She jabbed her hand into the water and clawed her fingers around Ferid's forearm. His skin slipped in her grip until she caught onto his wrist. She put her foot against the listing gunwale and pulled, feeling more water than wood against her boot. Ferid's body jerked suddenly, and Arshtat slipped. The sudden tug pulled her over.

"Highness!" Jumana cried out.

Arshtat hit the water shoulder first. She swallowed salt water, and sputtered. She flailed her arms and grasped a piece of the rail. The wood broke loose into splinters that dug into her skin, and the current tugged her away from the boat.

"Ferid!" she said between coughs and gasps. She lashed out with her hands beneath the surface, like tentacles seeking for him. Her fingers brushed against something just at the edge of her reach.

Bubbles rose to the surface where he'd gone under. She kicked and flailed but couldn't stay afloat. Water rushed into her ears and drowned out Jumana's shouts. She broke the surface for one last gasp, but then a wave washed over her face. She clutched and clawed at Ferid's sinking form, and got her hand around his shoulder. Panic welled up inside. She felt for Ferid's face, and slapped him with open fingers. She couldn't get as much force behind it as she wanted.

She thought she saw his eyes flutter open, but then it was too late. A desperate need overpowered her. She clawed for the surface, but all she could see was darkness, and the glint of light somewhere above. Then the light dimmed.