Here, there is life again. Ships crowd the harbor, with more lurking offshore, waiting. Dozens of patchy cats stalk the docks like they’re in charge, even while they beg sailors for scraps of fish. The Kalovaxian crews work hard, yellow heads glowing in the sun, but they are all well fed at least. Their pleasantly drunk, raucous voices chant sea songs while they build and scrub and scrape barnacles from the ships’ undersides. It’s strange that there aren’t any Astrean slaves to do the hard work, though I must admit it’s a wise choice. The cannons that line the ships on both sides can easily wipe out an enemy ship—or a Kalovaxian one, depending on who is manning it.
Seeing this lifts my spirits. If the Kaiser doesn’t trust my people with weapons, he must still fear us.
I make a mental tally of the ships so that I can report back to Blaise about them. There are three drakkars in port, mounted with wooden dragon heads at the bows and large enough to carry a hundred warriors each. Farther offshore, there is a ship so large I doubt it could fit in the harbor at all. It’s double the size of the drakkars, and I shudder to think of how many warriors it holds. There are also a dozen small ships bobbing in the waves around it, but as unassuming as they seem next to the large ship, they aren’t to be underestimated. They aren’t designed to be big, they’re designed to be fast. Each one can hold fifty people, maybe less, depending on what else it’s carrying.
Blaise mentioned a new weapon, something called a berserker, but maybe it’s a kind of ship. The Kalovaxians have so many names for their ships, I can’t keep them all straight.
I add up the ships and the men it would take to sail them—nearly two thousand warriors at full capacity, much more than what’s needed for one of their usual raids. And these are only the new ships. There are others in the East Harbor, older but still effective, that could triple that number. What is the Kaiser planning that requires so many? Even as I wonder, I know exactly how I’m going to find out.
At first glance, Prinz S?ren blends in with the rest of the crew. He’s helping to rig a gold sail emblazoned with the Kalovaxian sigil of a crimson dragon. His simple white cotton shirt is rolled up to the elbows, exposing strong, pale forearms. Corn-silk hair is tied back from his face, emphasizing his angular jaw and cheekbones.
Crescentia must have spotted him as well, because she lets out a light sigh next to me.
“We shouldn’t be here,” she says to me, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“Well, it’s too late now, I suppose,” I say with a mischievous grin. I loop my arm through hers and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Come on, think of it as bolstering the spirits of our brave warriors before they embark for…where? Do you know?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “The North, more than likely. To deliver gems.”
But these aren’t cargo ships. If they were loaded with Spiritgems in addition to those cannons and the ammo to go with them, they would sink before they left the port. Crescentia doesn’t know the difference and I can’t even fault her for that. If the siege hadn’t happened and I’d grown up a naive and spoiled princess, I doubt I’d have any interest in boats either. But most Kalovaxians love their boats more than some of their children, and I had thought maybe it would be something Ampelio and the other rebels could use against them when they rescued me.
We draw the eyes of the crew as we approach, eliciting shouted greetings and a few vulgar comments that we pretend not to hear.
“Is the Prinz looking?” Crescentia whispers. Her cheeks flush and she smiles sweetly at the ships we pass.
I paste a smile on my face as well, though some of these men must have fought in the siege and those who are too young must have fathers who did. Twenty thousand left. Blaise’s words echo in my head and my stomach twists. These people murdered tens of thousands of my people, and I have to smile flirtatiously and wave like I don’t hate them with every part of me. But I do it, as nauseated as it makes me.
Prinz S?ren is so focused on rigging the sail that he doesn’t look up with the rest of his crew. His expression is drawn taut in concentration as he ties intricate knots, brow furrowed and mouth pursed. When he pulls the knot tight and finally looks up, his eyes find mine first and linger for a beat too long before shifting to Crescentia. Blaise might be right, ridiculous as it is. I may be a damsel in distress, but the Prinz can’t very well save me from his own people, can he? From his father, from himself? A monster can’t also play the part of the hero.
He passes the rigging to a member of his crew and comes to the edge of the boat, hopping down easily onto the dock and landing a few feet in front of us. Before he can even straighten up, Crescentia and I are both in deep curtsies.
“Thora, Lady Crescentia,” he says when we rise again. “What brings you to the docks today?”
“I was craving some sea air, Your—” I break off when he gives me a look, reminding me of our agreement last night. “S?ren.” But at the sound of his given name, Crescentia gives me a sharp, suspicious look. It seems I can’t win, so I hastily shift focus. “We didn’t realize it would be such an event. What are all the boats for?”
His expression wavers slightly. “Nothing of importance. Dragonsbane is just causing a little trouble along the trade route. Sank a few of our trade ships last week. We’re going to bring him and his allies in,” he says.
I can’t bring myself to believe him. Not completely, at least. Not with this much artillery. The Theyn keeps hand-drawn maps hanging on the walls of his sitting room, and though they were never of much practical interest to Cress and me, we used to marvel at the beauty of them and note the differences between the artists’ depictions, how a narrow stream in one was painted as a wide river in another. But I do remember that in no version was the trade route wide enough to hold a boat the size of the one off the coast. In each map, the route was like a piece of string winding through the Haptain Mountains.
“I’m sorry we interrupted your plans,” S?ren continues. “I can’t imagine much fresh sea air makes it past this lot unsoured.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s an honor to see so many Kalovaxian men working so hard for the country,” I tell him.
I may be laying it on a tad thick. Even Crescentia shoots me a bemused look.
“And you’ll be leading them?” she asks, turning her attention back to S?ren.
He nods. “My first time leading a crew of my own,” he admits, his voice thick with pride. “We leave in a week’s time. These are just the finishing touches. The crew goes through them personally, as a way of aligning ourselves with the ship. It’s an old Kalovaxian custom,” he explains to me.
“Well, the old Kalovaxian custom is for the crew to build the boat itself,” Crescentia adds with a dimpled smile. “But it was amended when the boats kept falling to pieces. Warriors don’t make the best shipsmiths.”
S?ren’s eyes spark with a laugh that doesn’t quite make it out of him, but she looks pleased with herself. Her dimples deepen.
“That they don’t,” he agrees. “But we can be trusted with the rigging and finishing. Barely. Would you like a tour?” he asks.
Crescentia opens her mouth to politely decline, but I get there first.
“Yes, please,” I say. “That sounds fascinating.”
She pinches the inside of my arm but tries to hide her irritation from the Prinz. Inspecting boats is not how she wanted this day to go, and even I have to admit that boats and fascinating do not belong in the same sentence. But this is a chance to get information.
S?ren leads us to the rickety ladder fitted against the hull and helps hand Crescentia up first. Over her shoulder, she shoots me an annoyed look that I try to match with an encouraging one. She has a tendency toward seasickness, and among Kalovaxians, this is seen as a matter of great shame. I’ll have to give her an explanation later to quell her irritation. If she wants a crown so badly, I’ll say, she’ll need to put up with some discomfort.
When S?ren hands me up next, I let my fingers linger on the bare skin of his arm a few seconds longer than necessary, the way I’ve seen Dagm?r do at parties. It’s a brief touch, barely noteworthy, but the grip of his other hand at my waist tightens. I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t look at him. My cheeks warm as I pull myself onto the ship and then straighten my dress. Cress fidgets next to me, smoothing her hair and adjusting the neckline of her dress, her cheeks bright pink.