She felt as though she’d been slapped across the face. “Oh.”
The expression on the young man’s face softened, became something that was almost tenderness. “I’ll go and meet with General Milligreest, take his reward and talk to him about the demon, then find Captain Jarith and come back here. Ola will never know I left and tomorrow morning we’ll pretend that everything went exactly as Ola planned. She’s always a lot easier to deal with if she thinks she got her way.” Kihrin began looking around, rooting through wardrobes and cabinets. He pulled out a pair of baggy kef trousers and a matching vest with slippers, all in bright, festive colors.
“Let’s hope these still fit. They were large last New Year’s Festival, but I’ve grown since then.”
Morea helped him with the clothing and his hair, worrying over him. She was careful not to touch him, although her fingers shook and she suspected the nakari powder was having an effect. She wanted to touch him, hold him, and thank him with the only thing of value she thought she possessed, but she didn’t. Instead, she helped him dress and watched him leave out a back window.
She then turned her attention to making sure the bed looked like it held two bodies instead of one.
15: THE ZHERIAS MAW
(Kihrin’s story)
Surdyeh’s repertoire had always included sea tales, essential for a port town like the Capital. I was all too familiar with stories of the Desolation, an area of reef, broken islands, shoal, and becalmed sea that ate up ships the way Yoran witches ate children. From the north side, calm seas without wind or current left ships stranded. A southern approach meant conflicting currents, giant waves, and rocks for ships to dash themselves upon.
Some said the vané crafted the Desolation to keep the navies of Quur off their shores. Others said a forgotten god’s death was to blame. The Desolation interfered with shipping lines and caused panic in the hearts of seasoned sailors. The Daughters of Laaka, the kraken: those were a god-king tale, something a man who sailed all his life might never see. The Desolation was a certainty that waited to trap the unwary. I’d heard rumors of Zheriaso pirates who used the Desolation as refuge, but most scoffed at these stories—anyone fool enough to sail the Desolation would only end up as one of its victims.
Whether we would ever reach the Desolation was a matter of debate. On the Quuros side, to the north, the Desolation itself was the most pressing danger, but we were approaching from the south. Before we reached the mists, we faced the Zherias Maw, the result of the strong southern current hitting the rocks of the Desolation’s island chain. With no outlet, the current turned in on itself, creating a churning brine capable of smashing ships against the hidden reefs of the Desolation. The Maw waited long before The Misery reached the dead waters on the other side.
Teraeth hoped that the kraken would find passage through the Maw too difficult and would turn back.
I thought the assassin was being na?ve.
For this stretch of the journey, I didn’t growl as I heard the shouts of Magoq the galley master, who was whipping the slaves to row faster. Even with a strong wind in our sails, we needed the speed. Tyentso manipulated the currents to slow our pursuer, but if I looked out behind us using my second sight, I could see the glowing spectral outline of the monster gaining on us.
We sailed for three days but weren’t losing the creature. I knew—knew in my heart, in my bones—that if it caught us, it would kill every person on board, freeman or slave. Any who survived would either drown, be picked off by sharks, or devoured by the Maw. Already, the water surrounding the ship was turning choppy. Worse, the ship was starting to turn, to sail at an angle counter to the direction of Tyentso’s summoned winds.
It would be poetic to say it was a stormy, dreary day, but the sky was bright and beautiful. Even the increasingly jerky water was an intense blue. It didn’t seem like a day for dying, but then again, Surdyeh never once told me a story where Thaena the Death Goddess paid any attention to the weather.
For the first time in many months, I gave serious consideration to praying.
I spotted Khaemezra standing against the railing, talking to Tyentso, who looked more wan and frightened than I ever imagined possible. She hadn’t flinched at summoning a demon, but this? If the kraken didn’t kill us, the Maw would, and she seemed aware of the realities. Khaemezra, on the other hand, was as calm as if seated in a restaurant waiting for the waiter to bring her a second cup of tea.
“May I speak with you two ladies for a moment?”
Khaemezra smiled at me, but Tyentso snorted. “Lady? Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
I bowed to her extravagantly. Fortunately, she was looking for anything to distract her from thinking about our situation, and laughed instead of turning me into a fish. Although, I thought it might be handy to be a fish when the kraken showed up.
Preferably a small one.
I gestured back toward our pursuer. “She’s not fallen back, even with the time we’re making, and I have a feeling she’s playing with us. She’ll attack before we can reach the Maw.”
Tyentso’s expression twisted, and she looked green. “Too late for that.”
“No, I think we—what?”
“We entered the Maw several hours ago,” Khaemezra whispered. “The outer edges are calm, so the crew doesn’t realize yet. Our only chance is to approach the fangs in the correct order, sail around the Throat, and hit the safe passage perfectly, without waking the Old Man.”
“Could you repeat that in a way that makes sense?”
She clicked her teeth together in annoyance. “The main vortex is called the Throat, but there are eddies, little currents, spiraling off the main whirlpool. We call those fangs. Most ships are ruined by the fangs before they ever reach the Throat.”
“And what’s the Old Man?”
“There are worse things than kraken in these waters.” Khaemezra cocked her head, examining me with those strange blue-green eyes. Looking at them, I thought they were the color of the sky, then decided that no, they were the color of the sea. Then I had the peculiar thought that the vané hag’s eyes were a mirror reflecting the light of ocean and firmament; that indoors, underground, at night, Khaemezra’s eyes would have no color at all.
In any event, she had spooky eyes.
“What can we do?” I found myself matching her whispers. “If this ship crashes, those slaves will drown.”
Tyentso rolled her eyes. “Think to your own skin. Even a Zheriaso will drown in the Maw.* If this ship goes down, we all drown.”