He said it quietly, in a voice as smooth and as chill as ice. “You don’t understand all the variables, priest—”
“The hell I don’t!” he snapped. “What about the currents? In Hellsport they’d be running north—straight from the Prince’s domain to us. An ideal situation on every front. In Freeshore we’d be off to the west, which means we’d have to work that much harder to Know the enemy, while he wouldn’t have to work nearly as hard to get at us.” When the Hunter said nothing he demanded, “Well? Isn’t that worth something?”
“Of course it is,” he said evenly. “And don’t you think our enemy’s aware of it? Don’t you think he gets news from the north—directly from the Matrias, most likely—and therefore knows every detail of our flight across that nation? Including our departure from Esperanova, priest. You think about that. You think about what it means to head straight for the one place he’d most expect us to land. And then if you can come up with a good argument for landing there anyway, let me know. I’d be interested in hearing it.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. At last Damien turned away.
“Shit.” He sat down heavily. “You should have said something. You should have told us.”
“I apologize for that,” the Neocount said evenly. “If it’s any consolation, I would have much preferred the Hellsport landing. We could have made that port soon after midnight, but as for Freeshore . . .” He shrugged; the gesture seemed strangely artificial. “That’ll take longer.”
“Will we make it by dawn?”
“If not, there are enough hidden corners on this vessel to shelter me. I made sure of that before I committed us to this voyage.”
Damien looked over at Hesseth; her expression was grim, but she nodded slightly. “All right,” he muttered. Rubbing his forehead as if it pained him. “We’ll do it your way. But from now on we’re in this together, you understand? No more bargains struck behind our backs. No more surprises.”
“Of course.” The Hunter bowed ever so slightly. It was a polished gesture, precisely executed. It made Damien want to strangle him. “And I assure you, this is the better course. For all of us.”
“Yeah,” Damien muttered. Closing his eyes again. Trying hard not to think about the future. “We’ll see.”
Jenseny slept.
The sea is black, blacker than ink, blacker than night’s deepest shadows, and it stirs restlessly in the evening wind. There’s a storm off to the west, but it won’t come in this close; all that the shoreline will taste is a brief fit of ozone and a few wintry gusts. The rest will blow itself out over the deep ocean.
Jenseny dreamt.
The ship pulls into harbor, cutting through whitecaps like a finely honed blade. Freeshore’s piers are crowded with boats of all sizes, but not with people. Like all southern cities it fears the night, and the only people abroad at this dark hour are those who must be, those whose livelihoods depend on it.
And others.
She smells it first on the icy wind: a sourness tainting the midnight air, a wrongness fouling the offshore breeze. She tries to make out something that might serve as a source—anything at all—but the wooden piers are empty of all but a few night watchmen and a drunkard or two. Nothing she can see would make such a smell.
Water laps at the hulls of anchored ships, and she can hear the creaks of the smaller boats as they rub against the docks, rising and falling with the waves. Isn’t there something else also? A whisper perhaps. A soft rustling, like cloth against wood. She struggles to make it out, but there are too many distractions. Sails being winched. Orders being shouted. A thousand and one petty noises that drown out . . . what? What is it that she can almost, but not quite, hear?
A hand falls on her shoulder: she turns to find the priest behind her, Hesseth and Tarrant beside. They look strained and tired, but happy to be landing at last. “Ready to go?” the priest asks, and she manages to nod. Should she tell them what she senses? Or will Tarrant just chalk it up to a child’s imagination and insist they all ignore her? What if it really is her imagination, finally driven out of control by emotional exhaustion? Suddenly she doesn’t know what to do. Suddenly she isn’t even sure of what she smelled or what she heard or what she expected to see, there on the docks. But the sense of dread is so cold within her that she can hardly move when they urge her forward, so tightly is it cramping her stomach.
She watches as the sailors tie up the ship, then bridge the choppy water with a narrow gangplank. The priest urges her across it, gently. For a moment she almost turns back and runs, so suddenly does terror overwhelm her, but the priest’s hand is firm on her shoulder and Hesseth is a warm presence behind her and from somewhere she finds the strength to move forward. The piers are wet from a recent rain and the damp wood makes her footsteps sound more heavy and more certain than they are. A guard comes over to them as they disembark, but the smuggler Moskovan is ready for him; he shows the uniformed man their travel papers and at last the guard nods that yes, all is in order, they may proceed with their business.
Again—in the distance—come the whispers. Again comes the certain feeling that things aren’t right, that things aren’t going to be right until they get out of this place. They should turn around and run away as fast as they can—to their ship, to a different one, anywhere!—before those whispers find them.
“Jenseny?” The priest stops walking and kneels down beside her. He senses that something is wrong. “What is it?”
She doesn’t know how to tell him. She doesn’t know if she should. Didn’t he explain to her that the voices in Esperanova were only memories of things that had happened there, no more worthy of notice than a display in a storefront window? That’s what he’ll think these noises are, too. How can she possibly convince him they’re any more than that?
“I’m okay,” she whispers. Not because the words are true, but because they’re the only ones she can bring herself to voice. How can she make them understand the danger?
They go on. The pier is long and walking on solid planks feels strange after so many hours at sea; Tarrant say that’s normal. She’s shivering, but from more than the cold, and the fear inside her is so tight and painful that she can hardly stand upright.
And then they come. Black figures, swift and silent. They come from beside the travelers and before them and even from underneath the pier itself, so that in an instant the company is surrounded. Jenseny hears the whisk of steel against steel as the priest’s sword is drawn, but the gesture of defiance is doomed to failure even before it is begun. There are too many of them and they are everywhere, and their own swords glitter in the moonlight along with tiny stars that are arrow-tips and worse, as the blustery wind begins to move in from the sea-
She awakened with a suddenness that left her breathless; it took her a minute to get her bearings. The lamp in the galley had been turned down so that shadows reigned in the narrow space, and she shivered as she fought to make out shapes in the darkness. The rakh-woman was by her side and she stirred as Jenseny awoke, alarmed by her sudden tension. “Kasa? What is it?”
I had a bad dream, she wanted to say. But it wasn’t just a bad dream. She knew that as surely as she knew that the Enemy was waiting for them in Freeshore, not Hellsport. The same Enemy who had killed her father, and who would kill her too if he had half a chance. He was in Freeshore. Now. Waiting. She knew it as surely as she breathed.
“It’s a trap,” she gasped. Fighting her way to her feet. She was shaking so badly she could hardly stand upright, and the motion of the ship wasn’t helping. “They’re waiting for us!”