Turning to Markos, I had an idea. “You want to try sailing?” For some reason, I found myself hoping he would say yes. “This is a big bay. You can make mistakes here.”
“Me? I—you’d let me sail?” I saw a glint in his eyes. He set his hand tentatively on the tiller. Fee let go, scooting over on the bench.
“Well, that’s no good,” I said right away. “Grip it. She’s made of wood. You can’t break her.” I pointed to the posts marking the deepest part of the water. “Just stay in the channel.”
He closed his fist around the handle.
I bounced up out of the cockpit, climbing onto the cabin roof. The sun had come out and the water was blue, capped with lacy white-tipped waves. With two hops, Fee joined me.
“Don’t just leave me!” Markos looked panicked. “The post is getting close. What do I do?”
“You’re going to jibe.”
“What?”
“That thing you don’t like, when the sail slams all the way across.”
He almost let go of the tiller. “We’ll tip over.”
“She’s twenty tons. It’s impossible to tip her.”
“I doubt the Royal Society of Physics would agree,” he said between tight lips.
“It’s impossible to tip her in fair weather,” I amended. “Now, when I tell you to shove the tiller over, you’re going to do it decisive-like.”
He sat on the edge of the seat, glancing up at the sail. “Now?”
“Wait.”
He gave me a dirty look. “I am perfectly aware you’re doing this just to torture me.” The piling slid closer. I could see barnacles on the crooked post and, below, seabirds perched on the wet rocks. His voice rose. “We’re going to hit.”
“We’re not. Wait … wait … now!”
Markos shoved the tiller hard over. The boom and gaff slammed across with a wooden thunk. He half ducked out of instinct, though the boom passed several feet above his head. The sail snapped, then filled.
I trimmed the sheet a bit. The wind was coming more across our beam now.
“I didn’t know she could fly like this!” Markos shouted. Cormorant was heeling a good bit to port, but for once he didn’t complain about the tilt.
“She makes a good speed when she’s empty of cargo. She don’t point as well as that fast cutter might, but she does all right for herself.”
“It’s fun!” he yelled.
I wanted to tell him it wasn’t fun—it was work. But I found I couldn’t. A fair day with a fresh wind has a magic of its own. Of course a wherryman finds beauty in the work, or he wouldn’t be a wherryman.
Flopping on my stomach, I rested my chin on my arm. Above us, seabirds dipped and reeled. The wood of the cabin roof warmed me through my shirt. Salt was on my skin and in the air. I inhaled, closing my eyes and savoring the briny tang of it. For a moment I thought I understood … something.
The god at the bottom of the river speaks to us in the language of small things. I listened, but whatever elusive whisper I’d almost heard was gone before I could snatch at it.
Markos pointed. “Look at the birds.”
Four seagulls perched in a line along the curved deck of the wherry. “Oh, the gulls,” I said. “They do that sometimes.”
Maybe it did look strange to someone who wasn’t used to it. Another gull landed, wings flapping. When I moved, all five birds swiveled their necks to fix me with their beady eyes.
“Caw,” the closest gull said solemnly.
“They look like they’re watching you,” Markos said.
I laughed. “Shoo!” I waved my arms at the birds and they scattered, which was fortunate, because everyone knows gulls will shit all over your deck.
It seemed like no time passed before we were at the mouth of the River Hanu. I reluctantly rolled myself to a sitting position. The channel narrowed as Nemertes Water drained into the river, and on top of that the tide was rushing out, revealing mudflats on either side. It was a job for an experienced sailor.
“Almost,” Markos said, relinquishing the tiller to Fee. His hair was mussed from the wind. “Almost, I thought I understood.”
“Understood what?”
“What you meant, before.” He ran his hand along Cormorant’s trim. “The life in her.”
Standing to stretch his stiff legs, he froze. He squinted at the cabin roof, voice darkening. “What’s that?”
I spun, whipping out my pistol. I heard the whisper of steel as Markos drew his blades.
The air before us began to shimmer. I blinked. It had to be a trick of the light. The image of the river and the mud and the afternoon sky seemed to melt away and flutter to the deck, like someone throwing off a silken cloak.
My cousin Kenté sat on the cabin roof.
“Now that,” I said, my voice an uncertain croak, “was unsettling.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
“Stay back,” Markos warned. He grabbed my wrist, forcibly moving me behind him. “She may not be what she seems.”
“Let go of me.” I tried to wrestle out of his grip, but he held on.
“Only one manner of creature can completely hide itself like that.” He didn’t take his eyes off Kenté. “Caro, it’s a shadowman.”
“Don’t be stupid. That’s not a shadowman.” The idea was so ridiculous, I wanted to laugh. “That’s my cousin Kenté.”
“Is it? Then how did she get here?”
Kenté uncrossed her legs and stood, smoothing her skirts. She wore the same green-and-gold-striped dress from dinner last night. “Easy as peas and pie,” she said. “Perhaps I wished to know the secret of why my cousin was in such a hurry to slip away from Siscema.” She studied Markos. “I seem to have found you.”
He advanced on her, brandishing his blade. “I know an illusion when I see one. If you’re Cleandros, I’ll gut you right now, you traitor.”
She gulped, eyeing the sword. “I would greatly prefer that you not gut me.” She held up her hands. “Caro? A little help here?”
My mouth felt as dry as if I’d been chewing rope. Could a shadowman really mimic my cousin, right down to her twisted hair and upturned nose? He couldn’t possibly know what she looked like. I shuddered, a horrible image crawling over me like icy fingers. My cousins, laughing as they wandered innocently across the dark cobbled street on their way to the party … while the shadowman lurked, watching them.
I shoved my Akhaian dagger against Kenté’s throat—or the shadowman’s. “Where is she? What have you done with her?”
Her amber eyes widened. “This,” she said, “is an awful lot of blades. I’m Kenté, I swear!” She nodded toward Markos. “But he has the right of it. I’m also a shadowman.”
“What do you mean, you’re a shadowman?” I demanded.
“The god of the night has had her finger on me since I was a little girl,” she said. “How else do you think I know so many secrets?”
I almost believed her. Kenté was indeed sneaky—and besides, if this was Cleandros in disguise, come to murder Markos, why hadn’t he done it already? He might have stuck a knife in his back anytime today.
“When last we spoke,” I said, “you told me a story. What kind of creature was the story about?”
“That’s easy. A drakon. Though I never did get to that part.”