The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)
By: Heidi Heilig
The sun sparkled on the frosty stones, and the sky was a cool, cloudless blue—the weather so incongruous with the tableau we’d just witnessed. Escape was close; by the time we reached the gatehouse, I was practically running, but I stopped just under the arch, staring at the open passage through the barbican. “Someone already raised the portcullis.”
Blake stiffened. “Let’s get out while the front door is open.” He dropped my arm and stepped in front of me, into the dark tunnel. Just then, a figure strolled out of the shadows under the archway. “Who’s there?” Blake demanded, but I pulled him back.
The man was silhouetted by the sunlight behind him; I couldn’t see his face but I knew his cocky stance. “Is that a gun in your pocket, amira, or are you just happy to see me?”
A golden light appeared in his hand as Kashmir drew a small lamp from the breast pocket of his coat: one of the sky herring in a bottle. His white teeth gleamed as he grinned. Annoyed, I pushed him; he moved like water, twisting to the right and elbowing my tender shoulder. “Ow!”
Shock registered on his face. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I . . . no.” I shrugged him off, still irritated; I wasn’t about to admit to my bumps and bruises, not now. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” We passed through the gatehouse and into the square. It was more crowded now, with people running errands, hurrying to and fro. In the bright sunlight, and surrounded by other living souls, I felt a weight lift; it made me light-headed. “Thanks for scaring me half to death.”
“It wasn’t my intention, amira. I hate half measures.” His answer was glib, but I could see him eyeing me as he tucked the lamp back into his coat. “But I heard the shots. What were you two doing?”
Where to start? I licked my lips. “It’s a long story. Where have you been?”
“Here and there.” He patted his pocket; it jingled. Then he raised an eyebrow. “There’s dirt on your back.”
“What? Oh. Oh! Jesus, Kashmir. I fell.” I put my hand on my temple; my head was starting to ache. “But we found a way into the castle and there’s a man . . . there was a man . . . and now he’s dead—”
“Likely murdered,” Blake added. Then he glanced down at Kashmir’s belt, where the long dagger hung. “With a knife.”
I turned to Blake, incredulous. “You can’t honestly think Kash did that!”
“I’m only asking questions,” Blake said mildly. “But tell us, Mr. Firas. Have you been out here all night long?”
“Ah, Mr. Hart. Despite the rumors, even I can’t do anything all night long.” But Kash didn’t even smile at his joke. Instead, he took my arm. “Come, amira. Let’s get back to the ship. I think we’ve been here long enough.”
“At the castle?”
“In Ker-Ys.”
I wanted to protest, but I thought back to the dead man, lying on the floor, and I shuddered. Who had killed him? Where was the key? And who was he, really? A king without a kingdom, or just a man who’d lost his mind?
We wound our way toward the dock. When would Crowhurst return from New York? Perhaps he’d already come in with this morning’s tide—if so, I would be glad to get the captain’s map back, ask my questions, and leave. I counted forward. The gates would open next sometime around midnight. Plenty of time to pick a new destination. I rubbed my temple—my headache was worsening. Maybe I would rest a bit first.
“Amira, is something wrong?”
Blake frowned. “Rotgut mentioned she skipped breakfast,” he said. “And that was some hours ago.”
At the thought of food, my stomach turned again. But the dizziness was making it hard to walk; part of me felt as though I would float away into the wide blue sky if Kashmir let go. My skin felt strangely cool, even clammy; likely the adrenaline finally leaving. “Maybe food would be a good idea.”
“Come.” Kash steered us into a small shop near the bottom of the Grand Rue; baskets of pastry and bread lined the counters, and the smell of malt and sugar and butter warmed me far more than the bakery’s ovens. The blond woman behind the counter frowned at Kashmir and me. Her eyes slid to Blake until Kash pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket; then she pasted on a smile for him. But glancing down at the baskets, I was suddenly too hot. I plucked at the collar of my shirt, fumbling at the button. The proprietor arched a brow and said something to me, but I couldn’t hear her words.
“I’m sorry . . . can you . . .” I blinked and shook my head. “Sorry, I . . .”
“Amira?”
Suddenly the roar of the ocean was loud in my ears—confusing. We were not on the water. But the bakery was spinning around me, and my vision narrowed to a small point. My chin dropped as my head grew incredibly heavy. A wave of darkness washed over me, so gently, and I floated on it, arms out, face to the sky, rocking on this strange sea.
When my eyes drifted open—why had I closed them?—I was looking up at a yellowed plaster ceiling and two concerned faces.
“Don’t move,” Kashmir said to me.
“What happened?” My tongue was thick; I reached back to touch my head—it was throbbing—and found a tender spot. I tried to roll to my side; had I fallen?