The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)

 

 

Gwen leaped up then, catching hold of the anchor line and pulling herself aboard the Fool. The crew doubled their efforts under her watchful eye, and soon enough they were ready to cast off. I clamped all my warnings behind my teeth—I had little pity for a slaver. And Gwen didn’t look back as she maneuvered the corvette out of the sea gates and into the open water. Slate watched after her—but when I caught his eye, he only turned and went back into his cabin.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TEN

 

 

At least I knew Crowhurst was somewhere in the city. But where? He was not waiting at the dock, and when I asked the harbormaster, he told me he had never even heard of the man. Apparently he’d marked down the name of the Fool’s captain as “Cook.” Was it only a mistake, or was Crowhurst deliberately trying to hide his presence? I did not know, and I could not ask, at least not until he arrived. So I tried to conceal my disappointment as I handed over the port fee. It was higher than I’d expected, but the harbormaster’s haughty look invited no bargaining.

 

Kashmir raised an eyebrow when he saw me counting out the coin. “I suppose that’s how he affords such fancy dress,” he murmured after the man had gone.

 

“What kind of utopia would it be without pretty shoes?” I asked.

 

“I might take a look around. Try to find out.”

 

There was an invitation in Kashmir’s voice; reluctantly, I shook my head. “I should stay with the ship in case Crowhurst comes. The harbor is the first place he’ll look for me.”

 

His eyes darkened, and he turned toward the gangplank. “Suit yourself.”

 

I watched him go, unease growing in my chest—but he would be safe on land, wouldn’t he? Unless there was a flood. “Come back before high tide,” I told him.

 

“Aye, Captain.”

 

“And be careful out there!”

 

He only laughed—a mocking sound. “It’s a utopia, amira. What could go wrong?”

 

I made a face, watching him until he was out of sight. Then I settled in to wait, growing increasingly frustrated as the hours passed.

 

This far north, the winter days were short. By late afternoon, dusk had crept between the stone houses, the two-story malouinières and the low longères, nestling in corners and lying down in the streets. The tide rushed back home in time for sunset, and all before the church bells tolled six. The haunting sound of vespers drifted from the cathedral, and across the town, candlelight flickered like will-o’-the-wisps as hearth smoke curled up to meet the clouds that scudded between the sea and the scattered stars.

 

But above the city, the craggy turrets of the chateau remained dark. Dahut had told the truth—I had confirmed it with the harbormaster. There was no king in Ker-Ys.

 

I’d tried to ask the man what had happened, but he’d made the sign of the fig—a fist, with his thumb trapped between his fore and middle fingers, meant to ward off evil—and gestured toward the castle. “Le chateau, il est abandonné,” he’d said darkly, striding away over the cupped boards of the pier.

 

The temperature dropped even further as night fell, and after we’d eaten, the crew bundled up and disappeared into their cabins for some much-needed rest. Once they had, I strung my hammock—all by myself this time. Then I pulled socks over my hands and blankets over my head and tried to sleep.

 

I was doing all right too, until the sea gates opened again around eleven and the wind crowded into the embrace of the harbor. I gritted my teeth; now I knew why a key to open—or shut—the gates would be useful. But on the dark water, little fishing boats were rocking on the eddies, torches burning bright on their bows. Like all of us who served the sea, their lives were not ruled by the sun, but by the tides.

 

The wintery wind took me by the throat. I huddled back down, tucking the blankets tightly around me. How long had the gates been open this morning? Two hours? Three? Long enough for the fishermen to go out and check their trot lines. Shivering, I drew my knees to my chest.

 

Slate’s room would be out of the cold, but the weather was not as bleak as my father’s company. I had gone into his cabin to bring him dinner, hoping to ask about Gwen . . . not only for their history, although that had piqued my curiosity, but also about her arrival through the fog—and whether he thought she would be able to find her way back. Instead, I’d found my father crying into his sheets, great sobs that shook his frame. The sight had embarrassed me—I shifted in my hammock, uncomfortable still.