The giant spoke little and spent most of his time working the lines or standing around looking intimidating. But occasionally, he stepped in to help with our lessons. He wasn’t much of a teacher. “Move faster” was about all we could get out of him. Tamar was a far better instructor, but my lessons got less challenging after Sturmhond caught us practicing on the foredeck.
“Tamar,” Sturmhond chided, “please don’t damage the cargo.”
Immediately, Tamar snapped to attention and gave a crisp, “Da, kapitan.”
I shot him a sour look. “I’m not a package you’re delivering, Sturmhond.”
“More’s the pity,” he said, sauntering past. “Packages don’t talk, and they stay where you put them.”
But when Tamar started us on rapiers and sabers, even Sturmhond joined in. Mal improved daily, though Sturmhond still beat him easily every time. And yet, Mal didn’t seem to mind. He took his thumpings with a kind of good humor I never seemed able to muster. Losing made me irritable; Mal just laughed it all off.
“How did you and Tolya learn to use your powers?” I asked Tamar one afternoon as we watched Mal and Sturmhond sparring with dulled swords on deck. She’d found me a marlinspike, and when she wasn’t pummeling me, she was trying to teach me knots and splices.
“Keep your elbows in!” Sturmhond berated Mal. “Stop flapping them like some kind of chicken.”
Mal let out a disturbingly convincing cluck.
Tamar raised a brow. “Your friend seems to be enjoying himself.”
I shrugged. “Mal’s always been like that. You could drop him in a camp full of Fjerdan assassins, and he’d come out carried on their shoulders. He just blooms wherever he’s planted.”
“And you?”
“I’m more of a weed,” I said drily.
Tamar grinned. In combat, she was cold and silent fire, but when she wasn’t fighting, her smiles came easily. “I like weeds,” she said, pushing herself off from the railing and gathering her scattered lengths of rope. “They’re survivors.”
I caught myself returning her smile and quickly went back to working on the knot that I was trying to tie. The problem was that I liked being aboard Sturmhond’s ship. I liked Tolya and Tamar and the rest of the crew. I liked sitting at meals with them, and the sound of Privyet’s lilting tenor. I liked the afternoons when we took target practice, lining up empty wine bottles to shoot off the fantail, and making harmless wagers.
It was a bit like being at the Little Palace, but with none of the messy politics and constant jockeying for status. The crew had an easy, open way with each other. They were all young, and poor, and had spent most of their lives in hiding. On this ship, they’d found a home, and they welcomed Mal and me into it with little fuss.
I didn’t know what was waiting for us in West Ravka, and I felt fairly sure it was madness to be going back at all. But aboard the Volkvolny, with the wind blowing and the white canvas cutting crisp lines across a broad blue sky, I could forget the future and my fear.
And I had to admit, I liked Sturmhond, too. He was cocky and brash, and always used ten words when two would do, but I was impressed with the way he led his crew. He didn’t bother with any of the tricks I’d seen the Darkling employ, yet they followed him without hesitation. He had their respect, not their fear.
“What’s Sturmhond’s real name?” I asked Tamar. “His Ravkan name?”
“No idea.”
“You’ve never asked?”
“Why would I?”
“But where in Ravka is he from?”
She squinted up at the sky. “Do you want to go another round with sabers?” she asked. “We should have time before my watch starts.”
She always changed the subject when I brought up Sturmhond. “He didn’t just drop out of the sky onto a ship, Tamar. Don’t you care where he came from?”
Tamar picked up the swords and handed them over to Tolya, who served as the ship’s Master of Arms. “Not particularly. He lets us sail, and he lets us fight.”
“And he doesn’t make us dress up in red silk and play lapdog,” said Tolya, unlocking the rack with the key he wore around his thick neck.
“A sorry lapdog you’d make.” Tamar laughed.
“Anything’s better than following orders from some puffed-up cully in black,” Tolya grumbled.
“You follow Sturmhond’s orders,” I pointed out.
“Only when he feels like it.”
I jumped. Sturmhond was standing right behind me.
“You try telling that ox what to do and see what happens,” the privateer said.
Tamar snorted, and she and Tolya began stowing the rest of the weapons.
Sturmhond leaned in and murmured, “If you want to know something about me, lovely, all you need to do is ask.”
“I was just wondering where you’re from,” I said defensively. “That’s all.”
“Where are you from?”
“Keramzin. You know that.”