“What about me?” Wyatt asked.
“Talk with Derning and Grady. They don’t seem as connected to the others as I first thought. Find out why they volunteered.”
The Vintu handed out dinner, which the Storm’s crew ate sitting on stools the Vintu provided. Dinner consisted mostly of what appeared to be shredded pork and an array of unusual vegetables in a thick, hot sauce that needled the tongue.
After the meal, darkness descended on the camp and most retired to their tents. Antun Bulard was already in his, just like he always stayed in his cabin aboard ship. The light in Bulard and Bernie’s tent flickered and the silhouettes of their heads bobbed about, magnified on the canvas walls. A few hours after dark, Bernie stepped out. An instant later, Royce swooped in.
“How you been, Bernie?” Royce greeted him. “Going for a walk?”
“Actually, I was about to find a place to relieve myself.”
“Good, I’ll go with you.”
“Go with me?” he asked nervously.
“I’ve been known to help people relieve themselves of a great many things.” Royce put an arm around Bernie’s shoulder as he urged him away from the tents. Once more Bernie flinched. “A little jumpy, aren’t we?” Royce asked.
“Don’t you think I have good reason?”
Royce smiled and nodded. “You have me there. I honestly still can’t figure out what you were thinking.”
The two were outside the circle of tents, well beyond the glow of the campfire, and still Royce urged him farther away.
“It wasn’t my idea. I was just following orders. Don’t you think I’d know better than to—”
“Whose idea was it?”
Bernie hesitated only a moment. “Thranic,” he said, then hastily added, “but he just wanted you bloodied. Not dead, just cut.”
“Why?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
They stopped in a dark circle of trees. Night frogs croaked hesitantly, concerned by their presence. The camp was only a distant glow.
“Care to tell me what all of you are doing here?”
Bernie frowned. “You know I won’t, even to save my life. It wouldn’t be worth it.”
“But you told me about Thranic.”
“I don’t like Thranic.”
“So he’s not the one you’re afraid of. Is it Merrick?”
“Merrick?” Bernie looked genuinely puzzled. “Listen, I never faulted you for Jade’s death or the war you waged on the Diamond. Merrick should have never betrayed you like that, not without first hearing your side of it.”
Royce took a step forward. In the darkness of the canopy, he was certain Bernie could barely see him. Royce, on the other hand, could make out every line on Bernie’s face. “What’s Merrick’s plan?”
“I haven’t seen Merrick in years.”
Royce drew out his dagger and purposely allowed it to make a metal scraping sound as it came free of its scabbard. “So you haven’t seen him. Fine. But you’re working for him, or someone else who’s working for him. I want to know where he is and what he’s up to, and you’re going to tell me.”
Bernie shook his head. “I—I really don’t know anything about Marius or what he’s doing nowadays.”
Royce paused. Every line of Bernie’s face revealed he was telling the truth.
“What have we here?” Thranic asked. “A private meeting? You’ve strayed a bit far from camp, dear boys.”
Royce turned to see Thranic and Staul. Staul held a torch, and Thranic carried a crossbow.
“It’s not safe to venture too far away from your friends, or didn’t you think about that, Royce?” Thranic said, then fired the crossbow at Royce’s heart.
“Antun Bulard, isn’t it?” Hadrian asked, sticking his head in the tent.
“Hmm?” Antun looked up. He was lying on his stomach, writing with a featherless quill worn to only a few inches in length. He had on a pair of spectacles, the top of which he peered over. “Why, yes, I am.”
The old man was more than just pale—he was white. His hair was the color of alabaster, while his skin was little more than wrinkled quartz. He reminded Hadrian of an egg, colorless and fragile.
“I wanted to introduce myself.” Hadrian slipped fully inside. “All this time at sea and we never had the opportunity to properly meet. I thought that was unfortunate, don’t you?”
“Why, I—Who are you again?”
“Hadrian. I was the cook on the Emerald Storm.”
“Ah, well, I hate to say it, Hadrian, but I was not impressed with your cooking. Perhaps a little less salt and some wine would have helped. Not that this is any great feast,” he said, gesturing toward his half-eaten meal. “I’m too old for such rich foods. It upsets my stomach.”
“What are you writing?”