My fingers snaked into my pocket, seeking out the damp edges of the scales. I had so little information, and my knowledge of Grisha theory was sketchy at best. But this rule had always seemed fairly clear: one Grisha, one amplifier. I remembered the words from one of the convoluted philosophy texts I’d been required to read: “Why can a Grisha possess but one amplifier? I will answer this question instead: What is infinite? The universe and the greed of men.” I needed time to think.
“Will you keep your word?” I said at last. “Will you help us escape?” I didn’t know why I bothered asking. If he intended to betray us, he certainly wouldn’t say so.
I expected him to reply with some kind of joke, so I was surprised when he said, “Are you so eager to leave your country behind once again?”
I stilled. All the while, your country suffers. The Darkling had accused me of abandoning Ravka. He was wrong about a lot of things, but I couldn’t help feeling that he was right about that. I’d left my country to the mercy of the Shadow Fold, to a weak king and grasping tyrants like the Darkling and the Apparat. Now, if the rumors could be believed, the Fold was expanding and Ravka was falling apart. Because of the Darkling. Because of the collar. Because of me.
I lifted my face to the sun, feeling the rush of sea air over my skin, and said, “I’m eager to be free.”
“As long as the Darkling lives, you’ll never be free. And neither will your country. You know that.”
I’d considered the possibility that Sturmhond was greedy or stupid, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he might actually be a patriot. He was Ravkan, after all, and even if his exploits had lined his own pockets, they’d probably done more to help his country than all of the feeble Ravkan navy.
“I want the choice,” I said.
“You’ll have it,” he replied. “On my word as a liar and cutthroat.” He set off across the deck but then turned back to me. “You are right about one thing, Summoner. The Darkling is a powerful enemy. You might want to think about making some powerful friends.”
* * *
I WANTED NOTHING MORE than to pull the copy of the Istorii Sankt’ya from my pocket and spend an hour studying the illustration of Sankt Ilya, but Tamar was already waiting to escort me to her quarters.
Sturmhond’s schooner wasn’t at all like the sturdy merchant ship that had carried Mal and me to Novyi Zem or the clunky whaler we’d just left behind. It was sleek, heavily armed, and beautifully built. Tamar told me that he’d captured the schooner from a Zemeni pirate who was picking off Ravkan ships near the ports of the southern coast. Sturmhond had liked the vessel so much that he’d taken it for his own flagship and renamed it Volkvolny, Wolf of the Waves.
Wolves. Stormhound. The red dog on the ship’s flag. At least I knew why the crew were always howling and yapping.
Every inch of space on the schooner was put to use. The crew slept on the gun deck. In case of engagement, their hammocks could be quickly stowed and the cannon slotted into place. I’d been right about the fact that, with Corporalki on board, there was no need for an otkazat’sya surgeon. The doctor’s quarters and supply room had been turned into Tamar’s berth. The cabin was tiny, with barely enough room for two hammocks and a chest. The walls were lined with cupboards full of unused ointments and salves, arsenic powder, tincture of lead antimony.
I balanced carefully in one of the hammocks, my feet resting on the floor, acutely conscious of the red book tucked inside my coat as I watched Tamar throw open the lid of her trunk and begin divesting herself of weapons: the brace of pistols that crossed her chest, two slender axes from her belt, a dagger from her boot, and another from the sheath secured around her thigh. She was a walking armory.
“I feel sorry for your friend,” she said as she pulled what looked like a sock full of ball bearings from one of her pockets. It hit the bottom of the chest with a loud thunk.
“Why?” I asked, making a circle on the planks with the toe of my boot.
“My brother snores like a drunk bear.”
I laughed. “Mal snores, too.”
“Then they can perform a duet.” She disappeared and then returned a moment later with a bucket. “The Tidemakers filled the rain barrels,” she said. “Feel free to wash if you like.”
Fresh water was usually a luxury aboard ship, but I supposed that with Grisha in the crew, there would be no need to ration it.
She dunked her head in the bucket and ruffled her short dark hair. “He’s handsome, the tracker.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t say.”
“Not my type, but handsome.”
My brows shot up. In my experience, Mal was just about everyone’s type. But I wasn’t going to start asking Tamar personal questions. If Sturmhond couldn’t be trusted, then neither could his crew, and I didn’t need to grow attached to any of them. I’d learned my lesson with Genya, and one shattered friendship was enough. Instead, I said, “There are Kerch in Sturmhond’s crew. Aren’t they superstitious about having a girl onboard?”
“Sturmhond does things his own way.”
“And they don’t … bother you?”
Tamar grinned, her white teeth flashing against her bronze skin. She tapped the gleaming shark’s tooth hanging around her neck, and I realized it was an amplifier. “No,” she said simply.