“If a gale came up, you’d blow away,” the captain always said. “Wait till you muscle up.”
Evan was strong and wiry from climbing in the rigging, furling sail and hauling lines and scrubbing all the things on a ship that seemed to need scrubbing. Still, he’d not got his full growth yet, and he had a slender build. Given his years of starving on the streets of Endru, he worried that he would never “muscle up.” Why couldn’t he at least stay on deck with Brody and the others and get an up-close taste of the fighting? How could he improve if he didn’t get to practice?
If he couldn’t get in on the hand-to-hand, his second choice was to serve as lookout in a pursuit, calling out to the helmsman from a perch high in the rigging. That always provided an excellent view of the goings-on, even if it made him a target.
For sure, he’d rather play powder monkey than swab decks or repair sails or polish the brightwork. But it was hot work in the thick air belowdecks, where they had to blindly follow orders without really knowing what was going on. His ears rang for days after a watch on the gunnery deck. Plus there was always the danger of a misfire that would leave him a smear of blood and powder on the wall.
Still, orders were orders. Evan scrambled down the shrouds, dropping the last ten feet to the deck. He swung down the ladder to the gunnery deck, where the master gunner Samuel and his crew were already hard at work preparing the guns. Evan joined in, running sacks of powder and wad to each of the cannon. He’d had enough practice that he could do it in his sleep. First the powder, then the wad, then the cannonballs. Then it was down to the magazine, back to the gunnery deck, his thighs complaining about the extra weight of powder and shot.
There were eight twenty-four-pounders. The gunners could prep all eight, but once they touched the match to the lot, it would take time to reload, especially with the guns hot from firing. Speaking of heat, the back of his neck burned as if a bit of match might have fallen in somehow. Evan slid his hand under his collar, groping for the cause. When his hand touched metal, he ripped it away and sucked at his fingers, swearing. It was no wonder his neck was burning. The medallion embedded in the back of his neck was blazing hot. Cautiously, he brushed his fingers over it again.
Captain Strangward called it a “magemark,” and it had almost cost Evan this job. “I’ll take you on,” the pirate had said, after plucking him off the streets in Endru, “but you need to keep that thing hidden. Sailors are a superstitious lot, and I don’t want them getting worked up about it. The next thing you know, someone will be pushing you overboard or trying to slice it off you.”
Evan hadn’t made a fuss. He knew he was damned lucky to be chosen to crew with a master like Strangward, and keeping secrets was a small price to pay.
People said that magemarks were a sign of royal blood and magical power. If so, Evan was still waiting for that promise to be kept. Right now, his biggest worry was that he might start shedding sparks and set the powder off.
“I’m going topside for a minute,” he said to Samuel, the gunner’s mate, and skinned up the ladder before he could say no.
Cloud Spirit had come about to windward and shortened sail in order to hold her position. Captain Strangward stood on the quarterdeck, his glass trained on the challenger, which by now had come within shouting distance. Even without the glass, Evan could make out the figurehead now—a nude woman with long, webbed fingers, erupting out of a rock. Underneath was emblazoned: The Siren.
Evan turned away before he could be spotted, all but running into Brody.
“Aren’t you supposed to be below?” Brody said, clapping his big hand on Evan’s shoulder and spinning him back toward the stairs.
“Latham Strangward!” a voice called, clear and cold as the snowmelt that ran down off the Dragonback Mountains in spring. “Are you really going to turn your guns on me?”
Evan and Brody swung around in unison, as if they were chained at the hip.
A woman—or maybe a girl—stood in the bow of the other ship, like a second figurehead in loose breeches and a white linen shirt, a fine gold belt at her waist. She glowed with a brilliant blue-white light that burned so brightly that it hurt Evan’s eyes. Still, he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
“She’s beautiful,” Brody whispered, his voice thick with longing. He was gazing at the young captain in a way that he’d never looked at Evan.
Her hair was silver—not the dull color that comes with age, but as bright as a merchant’s tea service. It whipped around her head like a halo of snakes. Two locks—two streaks of bright color—had been braided and beaded. Red and blue. Her eyes were a pale purple—the color of sea thistle.
She couldn’t be much older than Evan, and she was already a ship’s master. She was also a mage, from the shine on her. People claimed you couldn’t throw a rock in the north without hitting a mage, but they were rarely seen this far south. Her crew glowed, too, but in a blue-purple color, like a bruise. They lined the decks, blades in hand, as if they’d come looking for a fight. Automatically, he counted. She had double their numbers.
A ship crewed by mages—that had to be bad news.
Apparently, Captain Strangward agreed. He had a good battle face, but right now he looked like he’d opened a hatch and found death waiting below. Instead of answering back, he turned and scanned the open deck, as if looking for someone. Evan slid behind the mizzenmast to avoid being spotted and dismissed. Finally, Strangward turned back to face the girl who’d called to him.
“Celly!” Strangward said. “Bloody hell, girl—is it really you? What’s it been—five years?”
“Five very long years,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “Longer for me than for you, I’ll wager.”
“Let me come around, so we can talk,” Strangward said. Evan knew he was buying time. “Abhayi, I’ll take the wheel for the moment. You ready the crew.”
With Strangward at the helm, Abhayi walked the deck, swinging his big head from side to side, speaking to one crew member, then another, descending the ladder to the gunnery deck.
Brody was still staring at the other ship, looking a little more wary, a little less starstruck. But only a little.
“Who is she?” Evan whispered.
“Celestine Nazari. Firstborn daughter of the empress Iona.”
“I didn’t know she had a daughter.”
Brody snorted. “Why would you know?”
He had a point.
“Celly was on her way to becoming the most powerful pirate mage on the Desert Coast, but she disappeared five years ago—when she was thirteen.”
So she was the age I am now when she disappeared, Evan thought. He did the figures in his head. “So she’s eighteen now?”
Brody shrugged. “She must be.”
“Then she’s too old for you,” Evan said, sliding a look at Brody.
“Maybe,” Brody said, pushing back his shoulders and drawing himself up, but not quite pulling off the display of confidence. “And maybe not.”
Evan could understand Brody’s fascination. He was drawn to the girl, too, though for different reasons. It was as if, when he looked at her, he saw some version of himself reflected back.
The two ships had been maneuvering so that the captains could converse from a safe distance. The closer the Siren came, the more painful the burning on the back of Evan’s neck. Yet curiosity kept him on deck.
“Look at that silver hair,” Brody said, with a shiver. “She must be a blood mage like Iona.”
“Blood mage?” Evan blinked up at Brody. “What do you mean?”
“They make people drink their blood, and turn them into slaves.”
“Well, I wouldn’t drink it,” Evan said.